i 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    SflE    b2T 


CANUTE  THE  GREAT: 


THE  CUP  OF  WATER. 


BY 


MICHAEL  FIELD. 


CANUTE  THE  GREAT: 
THE    CUP  OF  WATER 


BY 

MICHAEL     FIELU 


ITottbon : 
GEORGE   BELL  &  SONS, 
York  Street,  Covent  Garden. 


Clifton : 
J.  BAKER  &  SON. 


\_A II  rights  rcse7'ved.'\ 


CANUTE   THE   GREAT. 


**  O  Heavens  !  how  awful  is  the  might  of  souls, 
And  what  they  do  within  themselves  while  yet 
The  yoke  of  earth  is  new  to  them." 

Prelude.     Book  III. 


479288 


PREFACE. 


There  is  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  visiting  a  district  of  one's 
native  land  that  has  retained  the  idiosyncrasies  of  a 
province.  It  is  like  coming  across  an  unexpected  phase 
in  the  character  of  a  familiar  friend.  Association  quickly 
hallows  what  is  crude  in  novelty.  This  sensation  I  ex- 
perienced in  an  exceptional  degree  when,  two  years  ago, 
I  spent  some  weeks  of  the  summer  in  Norfolk.  The 
humble  landscape,  with  its  clear-cut  outlines  on  the 
horizon,  its  large  sky,  its  penetrating  sunshine,  impressed 
me  with  the  absence  of  mystery  and  reserve.  Unob- 
structed stretches  of  corn-field  lay  open  to  the  seasons 
and  the  wind.  As  soon  as  I  sailed  among  the  Broads 
I  discovered  that  this  shadowless,  unguarded  country 
had  a  secret  and  seclusion  of  its  own.  Moored  close  to 
the  shrouding  boundary  of  the  reed-bed,  among  the  water- 
lilies  and  the  soft  ripples,  one  seemed  to  catch  the  very 
heave  of  the  breast  of  silence.  Yet  from  the  centre  of 
one  of  the  loneliest  of  these  rush-girdled  meres  the  boom 


4  PREFACE. 

of  the  ocean  breaks  on  the  ear.  A  few  sand-hills  divide 
Horsey-Mere  from  the  unprotected  coast. 

Attracted  by  the  features  and  traditions  of  this  Danish 
kingdom,  I  cast  about  for  a  subject  that  should  be  of 
use  to  me  as  a  playwright;  and,  ultimately, — on  the 
advice  of  Professor  A.  W.  Ward,  to  whom  I  beg  to  offer 
my  sincere  thanks  for  the  suggestion  of  a  fine  dramatic 
problem, — determined  to  treat  of  the  conflict  of  Edmund 
Ironsides  with  Canute.  The  interest  attaching  to  this 
struggle  culminates  in  the  penitential  vows  of  our  first 
Danish  king,  to  govern  his  life  thenceforward  by  recti- 
tude, to  observe  equal  judgment  everywhere,  and  if, 
through  the  intemperance  and  negligence  of  youth,  he 
had  done  what  was  not  just,  to  endeavour  by  God's  help 
entirely  to  amend  it.  His  later  years  are  an  expiation  to 
England  for  the  murder  of  his  great  English  foe. 

The  story  of  Canute  is  full  of  the  tragic  element  of 
evolution : — I  say,  the  U'agic  element.,  in  opposition  to  the 
still  prevalent  doctrine,  that  declension  and  calamity, 
rather  than  development,  are  essential  to  the  composition 
of  tragedy.  The  evils  of  an  age  of  decline  cannot  be 
compared  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  era ;  for  neither  the 
race  nor  the  individual  possess  in  the  term  of  decrepitude 
that  vitality  that  gives  poignancy  to  regret.  When,  on 
the  contrary,  a  vigorous,  aggressive,  and  undisciplined 
people  comes  to  recognise  its  barbarism  through  contact 


PREFACE. 


with  the  civihzation  it  has  defaced,  it  wrestles  with  an 
intolerable  shame.  In  the  evolutionary  struggle  the 
survivor  is  himself  a  tragic  figure.  Every  sunrise  brings 
him  into  sharper  antagonism  with  the  beliefs  and  habits 
that  beset  while  they  revolt  him.  He  is  alienated  from 
his  gods,  his  forefathers,  his  very  dreams.  His  hopes 
are  not  founded  on  experience,  nor  his  ideals  on  memory. 

Causes  such  as  these  invest  the  person  of  Canute  with 
a  singular  and  mournful  majesty.  Centuries  of  fierce, 
pagan  blood  in  his  veins,  he  set  himself  to  the  task  of 
becoming  a  great  Christian  governor  and  lawgiver  to  men. 
It  is  the  business  of  this  play  to  expound  how  these 
things  came  to  be,  and  at  what  cost  they  were  achieved. 

As  the  ages  roll  on,  we  find  no  grim,  inhuman  shapes 
by  the  wheel  of  Destiny.  The  feeding  of  the  spindle, 
the  snapping  of  the  threads,  does  not  indeed  belong  to 
man ;  but  to  his  hands  a  great,  formative  power  has  been 
given,  and  with  this  self-determination,  if  he  has  lost  the 
misery  of  being  the  plaything  of  the  gods,  he  has  gained 
access  to  the  deepest  sources  of  pain  in  increased 
capacity  for  humiliation  and  remorse. 

M.  F. 


NOTE. 


It  may  be  remarked  at  the  outset,  that  that  reader  will 
be  least  chafed  by  the  historical  inversions  in  these  pages 
who  remembers  of  the  period  treated  simply  what  he 
learned  as  a  child.  Emma's  marriage  with  Canute,  which 
did  not  take  place  till  after  the  death  of  Edmund,  in  this 
work  immediately  succeeds  the  partition  of  the  kingdom. 
Again,  by  special  treaty,  Eric  and  the  Danish  ships  were 
allowed  to  winter  in  the  Thames  after  this  division ;  for 
dramatic  purposes  Canute  is  placed  in  command  of  his 
fleet  within  sight  of  London.  In  justice  to  Canute  it 
should  be  added,  that  not  one  English  writer  directly 
charges  him  with  the  murder  of  King  Edmund.  It  is 
also  due  to  Edric,  earl  of  Mercia,  to  admit  that  there  is 
no  distinct  evidence  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  crime. 
Even  on  the  supposition  that  he  was  guilty,  a  hint  of  a 
single  chronicler  is  the  only  authority  for  assuming  that 
he  chose  his  young  son  to  be  the  instrument  of  his 
wickedness. 

From  the  above  remarks  it  will  be  evident  that  the 
story  of  Canute  has  been  dealt  with  almost  as  freely  as 
if  it  were  a  legend  of  the  Round  Table.  At  the  same 
time  the  mutilations  of  history  have  been  made  de- 
liberately for  psychological  or  dramatic  reasons,  and 
careful  study  has  been  given  to  the  period.  Cordial 
thanks  are  due  to  Professors  T.  N.  Toller  and  A.  W. 
Ward  for  the  light  they  have  thrown  on  obscure  points, 
and  for  the  loan  of  several  books  difficult  of  access, 
notably  Laing's  Sea-Kings^  and  the  Knutlinga  Saga, 

6 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

Canute,  son  of  Swend,  King  of  Denmark. 

Edmund  Ironsides,  son  of  Ethelred,  King  of  England. 

Edric  Streona,  an  English  Alderman. 

Ethelnoth,  Archbishop. 

Thororin,  a  Scald. 

Hardegon,  an  old  Danish  Jarl. 

Alfgar,  child  to  Edric. 

Emma    Elfgifu,    widow    of    Ethelred,    step-dame     to 

Edmund. 
Edith,  wife  to  Edric,  sister  to  Edmund. 
Elgiva,  wife  to  Edmund. 
GuNHiLD,  a  Scandinavian  Prophetess. 

English^  Danes,  Normans,  Monks,  etc. 

Scene. — Various  parts  of  England. 


ACT    I. 

Scene  I.     The  Dafiish  Fleet  at  Gainsborough. 
Enter  Canute,  Thororin,  and  Hardegon. 

Canute.     My  father  dead  !     O  Skulda,  not  in  fight  ! 
At  eve  among  our  slaughtered  warriors 
The  fierce  Valkyries  missed  him.     On  his  couch 
He  groaned  and  died  ignoble. 

Hardegon.     With  no  scar, 
And  yet  he  swore  he  bled. 

Thororin.     In  health  and  valour 
He  stood  among  his  men,  a  mighty  man, 
Straight  as  a  fir-tree  on  Norwegian  hills. 
When  of  a  sudden  limb  and  eye  were  cowed  ; 
He  shivered  as  a  trunk  before  the  axe  j 
And  crying, — Help  !  St.  Edmund  comes  to  slay  ! 
He  fell  to  earth  a  madman.     All  night  through 
He  called  the  surgeon  to  his  uncut  flesh 
In  torment  and  despair.     At  early  dawn 
He  started  and  turned  quivering  to  the  light, 
Then  broke  into  a  shriek,  He  comes  again  ! 
And,  pulling  up  the  skins  about  his  eyes, 
Sank  breathless. 

Canute.     O  my  father,  hadst  thou  lain 
Within  thy  lighted  ship  upon  the  sea, 
And  felt  the  gnawing  of  thy  funeral  fire 


lo  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  I. 

In  every  failing  member,  I,  thy  son, 

Had  joyously  beheld.     But  on  thy  pillow  ! — 

Hardegon.     Would  he  had  left  St.  Edmund's  town  in 


peace 


He  saw  a  spectre.     Well  I  deem  the  dead 
A  people  by  themselves ;  come  of  what  stock 
They  will,  it's  in  a  ghost  to  freeze  the  blood. 
I  doubt  not  that  St.  Edmund  wore  a  frock 
White  like  a  girl's,  and  yet  was  bright  as  Baldur 
About  the  head.     These  Christians  have  a  way 
Of  shining  that  dumbfounders.     I  have  stopped 
Hacking  the  bald-heads,  frighted  by  that  clear. 
Fixed  smiling.     There  is  magic  in  these  monks  ; 
They  must  not  be  insulted  ;  and  our  king 
Sneered  at  the  dead  man's  altar. 

Canute.     Thororin — 
These  saints  we  slay,  these  peaceful  priories 
We  burn  to  blackness  in  their  green  retreats, 
Have  deep,  compelling  power  and  ordered  sway, 
That  trouble  and  subdue  me.     I  have  stood 
Among  the  smouldering  orchards,  and  a  sound 
Of  strange,  invisible  woe  has  struck  my  ear, 
AVandering  around  the  ruins.     When  I  leap 
On  board  my  dragon-vessel,  loose  my  soul 
To  the  dark  blast,  scent  the  accustomed  foam, 
I  call  on  Odin ;  when  the  sea  grows  calm, 
I  think  of  those  still  churches,  their  grey  priests, 
AVith  gracious,  learned  faces.     They  rebuke 
My  lawless  blood,  yet  satisfy  a  want 
That  lurks  within  my  brain. 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  i 

Ha7'degon.     "What  is  this  folly  ? 
It  is  the  things  of  old  that  keep  us  men. 

Thororin.     A  gentle  worship  is  not  for  a  people 
Whose  mothers  nurse  them  in  a  shaggy  land 
Of  pines,  and  scarped  rocks,  and  howling  wolves  ; 
Whose  fathers  row  their  children  out  to  sea, 
And  make  the  waves  their  playfellows,  the  storm 
Their  foster-sire  ;  who  all  their  after  days 
Dwell  in  the  whirl  of  nature. 

Canute.     I  am  back 
With  my  old  gods  when  there's  a  mighty  wind, 
That  sets  my  locks  a-sail.     O  Hardegon, 
I  am  a  Viking  still.     I,  as  my  sires. 
Worship  All-father's  Raven,  as  I  mow 
My  way  through  corpses  underneath  its  pinions  ; 
Yet  with  a  curious  dread  I  pause  to  hear 
The  monks  chant  in  the  vales. 

Thororin.     I  know  the  music  ; 
It  cannot  match  the  short  sweep  of  our  verse. 
That  hath  a  wind  behind  it. 

Canute.     I  shall  live 
To  be  the  grandest  theme,  my  Thororin, 
Harp  ever  sounded.    Hardegon,  take  cheer  ; 
I  will  hold  sway  in  all  the  northern  lands, 
And  in  this  well-loved  England  base  a  throne 
That  Cerdic's  race  shall  shake  not. 

Hardegon.     Sense  at  last ! 

Thororin.     And  inspiration.     Oh,  he  fires  my  heart ! 

Canute.     Who  enters  ? 

\Enter  Edric] 

Hardegon.     Edric,  the  sly  alderman 


12  CANUTE    THE   GREAT  [Act  I. 

That  overtops  all  England. 

Canute.     Then  a  fellow 
To  use  with  skill  and  caution. 

Edric.     On  my  knees 
I  greet  the  king.     I  have  vast  influence, 
Am  husband  to  the  princess,  own  a  store 
Of  schemes  and  secret  counsels.     Verily 
In  me  you  have  a  God-send. 

Canute.     AVhom  we  greet. 

Edric.     I  come  to  tell  of  treason. 

Hardegon.     Let  us  hear 
Your  hes. 

Edric.     I  bring  a  mouthful  of  sour  news  ; 
But  if  the  Northmen  cannot  brook  the  truth — 

Canute.     Speak  openly. 

Edric.     Then  let  them  not  believe. 
The  English  Witan,  breaking  every  oath 
Sworn  to  the  Dane,  despatch  their  messengers 
To  Ethelred,  entreating  his  return 
From  Normandy,  his  refuge  and  retreat. 
They  will  receive  him,  so  he  govern  better ; 
You  they  will  outlaw. 

Canute.     Yet  with  hostages 
They  sealed  a  compact  to  obey  King  Swend. 
Traitors  ! 

Edric.     Heyday  !     This  whelp  has  deadly  ire. 

Canute.     I  pant  for  vengeance  on  the  perjurers. 
No  honour,  and  no  faith  ! 

Hardegon.     The  viking  spirit ! 
This  is  the  ancient  mood. 

Edric.     What  means  his  silence  ? 


Sc.  L]  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  13 

Thororin.     His  eyes  are  sharp  with  hghtning,  and  his 
forehead 
Like  a  black  sea-diff  on  which  nods  the  corn. 

Canute.     It  was  a  bond,  they  gave  us  hostages. 
By  Odin,  Thor,  and  Frey, 
I  swear  I  will  exact  the  penalty 
Of  broken  faith.     As  they  have  lost  my  trust, 
Their  children  now  shall  lose  hands,  noses,  all 
That  tempts  the  knife.     Forth  with  the  prisoners  !  Hack, 
Lop  them  like  saplings,  make  them  bare  of  features 
As  woodmen  leave  their  trees. 

[Thororin  sweeps  his  harp?\ 

Hardegon.     I  hear  the  order 
With  joy  ; — so  like  old  Gorm's  commands,  right  manly, 
Just,  pitiless  !  \_Exit  Hardegon.] 

Catiute.     [To  Thororin.]     Look  on.     There  will  be 
moods 
When,  with  your  harp,  you  must  rehearse  this  scene ; 
My  nature  will  require  it.     They  are  boys ; 

Yet Thororin,  I  will  not  take  their  lives  ; 

Let  them  learn  horror  of  their  fathers'  sin, 

Return  them  branded  to  their  infamous 

Begetters,    [^.t// Thororin.]    Englishman,  a  bond  with 

you 
To  work  my  cause  with  honesty  and  skill. 
This  Edmund — 

Edric.     Is  a  foe  to  circumvent. 
The  stripling  is  already  on  his  way, 
Sent  by  his  exiled  father  to  the  Witan 
With  promises  ; — speeches  will  have  small  weight 


14  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 


Spoken  for  Ethelred,  who  lolls  his  tongue 
Which  way  is  best  for  scraping  off  the  flies  ; 
But  this  young  prince  has  something  in  his  look 
So  prompt  and  trusty — comely-faced  like  you, 
And  fresh,  but  more  the  bearing  of  a  man. 

Canute.     He  seeks  the  Witan  ;  let  him  come  to  me, 
And  I  will  make  him  captain  of  a  band 
Of  most  efficient  youths. 

Edric.     No  menaces  ! 
We  must  have  patience  ;  when  he  heads  the  army, 
I  promise  you  to  draw  his  forces  off 
Under  his  very  nose.     I  simply  ask 
A  twelvemonth  for  his  ruin.     Give  me  time. 
\_A  deep  cry  is  heard ?\^ 

Canute.     They  suffer,  Edric — your  young  countrymen. 

Edric.     A  shifty  folk,  these  English. 

Canute.     Traitors'  ways  ! 
Mine  is  the  land ;  I  will  reconquer  it, 
Will  ravage,  leave  these  waving,  marshy  flats. 
These  crumbling  bays,  and  strike  into  the  corn. 
The  horse-hoof  gives  possession.     I  will  ride. 

Edric.     Your  father  fell  a  victim  to  a  saint ; 
Best  get  him  under  ground. 

Cajiute.    King  Swend  shall  rest 
At  Roskild  with  his  ancestors.     Declare 
Among  your  countrymen  his  death  was  caused 
By  stumbling  of  his  horse. 

Edric.     Ah,  no  more  lies. 
All  honesty,  and  yet — A  vicious  brute. 
That  flung  his  rider,  kicked  his  skull,  the  rest 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  15 

Was  all  delirium  from  injury. 
I  have  the  cue. 

Canute  \_padng  excitedly].     It  is  my  father's  land  : 
Hath  it  not  felt  his  mutilating  mark 
From  north  to  south  ?     Hath  the  corn  e'er  been  reaped 
He  hath  not  trampled  ?     Is  there  town  or  hamlet 
Unblackened  by  his  fires  ?     Hath  he  not  quelled 
These  English  hinds  ?     I  will  lay  siege  to  London, 
And  snatch  his  fame  from  Edmund.     As  a  tempest 
Travels  the  kingdoms  of  a  mighty  plain, 
Then  breaks  on  one  doomed  spot,  I  will  descend 
On  him  in  sudden  ruin.     He  shall  feel 
In  me  the  power  and  pressure  of  the  North  -, 
The  strength  of  fighting  Asi ;  all  that  happened 
In  Gorm's  fierce  bosom  when  he  eyed  a  coast, 
And  the  lust  seized  him  for  its  ravaging. 
A  taunt,  a  challenge,  and  the  waves  are  black 
With  dragon-fleets.     I  summon  to  my  blood 
The  terrors  of  dead  sea-kings. 

{Re-enter  Thororin  and  Hardegon.] 

Hardegon.     They  are  ready. 
This  English  band.     Will  you  not  look  on  them  ? 
As  useless  as  old  women,  these  fine  youths. 
They  felt  it  when  we  lopped  away  their  hands. 

Canute   \laying  his  hand  o?i  his  sivord\     Did    I    say 
that  ?     .     .     .     I  was  infuriate. 
You  are  not  in  the  service  of  King  Swend  ; 
Wait  till  I  cool  ere  you  obey  my  orders. 
Where  lies  my  father  ?     I  will  learn  the  truth, 
Handle,  and  scan  his  body.     Oh,  to  think 


i6  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

That  there  should  be  no  wounds,  no  gory  issue 
For  his  tremendous  soul ! 

Hardegon.     They  covered  him 
Most  carefully,  such  fear  was  in  his  eye. 

Canute.     But    I  will   cow   this    Edmund,  this  young 

Christian 
Who  bribes  his  saint  for  executioner. 
Pull  down  your  harp,  my  Thororin,  the  chords 
May  bring  some  colour  to  the  dead  man's  cheek. 
[Aside.]     And,  Hardegon,  learn  the  full  policy 
Of  yon  ill-spoken,  braggart  Englishman. 
When  you  have  brought  me  to  my  father's  corpse, 
Look  to  his  motives.     \Exeiint  Canute,  Thororin,  and 

Hardegon.    Edric,  having  overheard  Canute's  last 

wo?'ds,  stretches  himself  on  the  royal  chair  vacated  by 

him.] 
Edric.  Look  to  his  motives.  They  will  be  clever  who 
get  at  them.  I  haven't  a  brain  to  hatch  them.  Wide- 
awake and  no  scruples — a  man  can  do  wonders  by  just 
keeping  an  eye  on  the  weather-cock.  Motives  !  They 
think  I  married  the  king's  daughter  for  the  sake  of  the 
blood  royal — and  I  took  her  to  bring  down  her  pride 
with  low  jokes,  for  she  once  curled  her  lip  at  me.  To 
pour  one's  ribaldry  on  a  delicate  princess,  with  the 
Church  to  tell  her  all  is  innocent  in  wedlock,  it  has  been 
a  rare  pastime  !  But  last  year  I  had  better  company,  the 
king  sent  me  to  escort  his  Old  Lady,  as  they  call  her,  to 
Normandy.  She  has  the  wit  of  the  couple  and  a  grace — 
'tis  a  pleasure  to  be  near  her,  for  she  bows  over  your  ear  as 
softly  as  she  would  with  the  fellows  at  court.     If  I  could 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  17 

but  have  her  for  my  mistress  when  King  Ethelred  has 
done  languishing.  But  she  is  too  keen  and  lofty.  I 
could  never  cure  her  of  her  condescension,  and  besides 
I  am  not  amorous.  I  like  to  play  with  fools  and  turn  them 
round  my  fingers.  There  is  nothing  to  appeal  to  in  me 
— no  conjuring  by  Odin — or  our  Lady.  I  am  careful 
to  scrape  away  association  from  fact.  Significance,  sug- 
gestion ! — they  are  the  bane  of  life.  That  banner  floating 
there,  they  have  worked  a  raven  on  it,  and  they  worship 
the  black  image  like  an  idol.  Flap  a  bit  of  cloth  in  the 
wind,  and  you  can  lead  men  like  sheep  to  the  slaughter. 
But  /  am  not  gulled.  That  banner  is  to  me  an  indifferent 
shred  of  cloth, — and  everything  is  what  it  seems.  I  care 
no  more  for  a  parchment  than  for  the  leather  on  my 
shield.  And  this  young  Prince  Edmund,  with  his  open 
face  and  hope  of  redeeming  his  father's  honour  !  He  is 
full  of  superstition  and  cannot  thrive. 

\_Re-e?iter  Hardegon.] 

Well,  you  wonder  what  has  brought  me  to  your 
master  ?  Old  statesman,  it  is  this  :  your  master  is  going 
to  win ;  and  I  am  the  only  Englishman  who  can  bring 
my  own  prophecy  to  pass,  for  he  will  not  conquer  with- 
out artifice.  The  English  prince  hates  cunning,  so  I 
hate  him ;  every  man  likes  to  have  employment  for  his 
faculties. 

Hardegon  \aside\.  He  is  as  ugly  as  foul  weather  at  sea. 
Report  to  your  young  prince  how  we  served  his  hostages, 
but  don't  brag  you  sat  sprawling  in  my  master's  royal  seat. 
It  is  unnatural  to  see  you  here  at  all.  You  are  by  rights 
our  enemy. 

c 


1 8  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  1. 

Edric  \risi7ig  afid  yawnmg\.  Oh,  you  will  not  have 
me  long  a  spy  on  your  tactics.  I  have  no  particular 
ambition.  I  just  rode  over  here  as  a  friend  to  let  you 
know  what  was  chancing.  I  am  indolent  by  nature ;  you 
must  take  7ny  time ;  but  you  will  find  it  worth  your  while 
to  make  me  comfortable.  Just  give  me  fodder  for  my 
nag,  and  your  best  flavoured  Danish  dishes. 

Hardegofi.  My  own  lads  shall  serve  you  \_aside\ 
and  keep  a  watch  on  you  too,  till  you  turn  your  reins 
southward.  Here,  Harold,  Ralf,  an  English  alderman 
wants  feeding.  These  youngsters  will  be  your  squires ; 
but  have  a  care.  Return  to  your  own  folk.  English 
faces  will  have  to  suffer  now  for  their  saint  turning 
murderer.  \^Exit  Edric  attended^ 

They  were  fine  boys  we  hacked ;  that  is  a  fellow  wants 
pelting  with  the  bones  one  has  gnawed,  till  he  is  punched 
in.  I  would  do  it  myself,  if  it  were  not  for  orders. 
Orders,  forsooth,  from  my  young  Viking !  I  shall  have 
hard  times  with  him ;  he  is  uncertain  and  masterful. 

\Exit?^ 

Scene  H.     Malmeshury.     The  Orchard. 

E^iter  Edmund  and  Elgiva. 

Edmufid.     Elgiva,  I  am  come  for  you,  my  wife. 
Kiss  me !     You  come  out  in  the  orchard,  sweet. 
Lest  envious  nuns  should  leer  at  our  encounter. 
As  the  unclean  at  innocence.     That  woman 
Who  can  bear  witness  of  a  stolen  kiss 
I  would  abandon  to  the  rosary's 


Sc.  II.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  19 

Perpetual  toil ;  but  who  should  brag  of  lovers, 
New-mating  lovers,  as  we  twain,  should  never 
Look  on  the  sun  again.     Dear,  we  are  free  ; 
It  is  the  summer  morning  of  our  love ; 
And  now  my  little,  flushing,  English  rose 
Can  open  all  the  treasures  of  her  breast 
To  the  benignant  air.     Give  me  your  lips. 

Elgiva.     I  will  not,  Edmund ;  in  my  very  sight 
My  lord  was  basely  murdered.     There  he  sat 
Haughty  and  awkward,  my  great,  trustful  Dane, 
At  Edric's  board.     I  noted  that  the  princess 
Was  pale,  she  twitched  her  hand,  she  beckoned  me 
Aside,  and  looking  up,  I  saw  the  room 
Full  of  armed  men,  my  husband  in  the  midst, 
Astonished,  fighting  with  tremendous  fists. 
The  lady  pressed  me  to  her  bosom  close 
To  hide  me  from  the  slaughter,  but  I  broke 
Away,  and  climbing  to  the  casement  saw 
The  chapel  blazing  where  the  hunted  guests 
Had  fled  for  sanctuary.     It  is  reported 
That  Edric  is  the  Atheling's  counsellor, 
Edric — the  lying  tongue,  the  false,  false  lip. 
I  am  an  Englishwoman,  and  I  cherish 
My  country  to  this  plot  of  orchard-ground : 
I  would  not  cede  an  inch  of  English  earth. 
No,  nor  the  seas,  they  should  be  English  too. 
With  cities  of  strong  ships.     And  I  would  love 
The  line  of  Cerdic ;  but  I  must  abhor 
The  fitful,  shifty,  dismal,  obstinate, 
Untoward  Ethelred,  who  damps  the  hopes 


20  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  I. 

Of  his  stout,  rallying  subjects,  who  at  Council, 

Where    men    should    meet    for    justice,    planned   the 

murder 
Of  my  great  Danish  earl :  and  if  his  son 
Knew  of  the  vile  intent — O  Edmund,  Edmund  ! 

Edimind  \_walking  apart\.     Arraigned  a  traitor  by  the 

girl  I  love, 
I  cannot  speak.     I  will  return  to  her 
When  the  last  Dane  is  driven  to  his  ship. 
And  yet,  without  her  woman's  faith,  I  go 
Unharnessed  to  the  field. 

S^Approaching  /ler.] 

Then  you  dismiss  me, 
Uncomforted,  to  raise  an  English  band, 
That  will  grow  sullen,  and  refuse  to  fight. 
As  you  refuse  to  love,  because  I  bear 
The  name  of  Ethelred  the  Redeless'  son  ? 
Yet,  lady,  you  have  seen  me  in  the  midst 
Of  strong  temptation  play  no  miscreant's  part. 
That  day  you  looked  up  from  your  wedding-veil, 
I  knew  I  was  beloved.     A  deadly  wrench  ! 
I  saw  you  yielded  to  the  Danish  earl, 
Your  precious  body,  the  pure  maidenhood, 
I  would  have  crowned  with  queenship,  and  I  swore 
Never  again  to  look  upon  your  face  ; 
I  banished  you  my  heart's  realm,  nor  revoked 
The  sentence,  till  this  day  a  messenger 
Told  of  your  husband's  death,  and  how  you  fled 
To  seek  protection  in  these  holy  walls. 

Elgiva.     O  Edmund,  my  great  lover,  my  dear  prince, 


Sc.  IL]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  21 

Speak  to  me,  pardon  me,  ask  o'er  again 
For  what  you  asked. 

Edmund.     Give  me  those  honest  eyes, 
Where  there  is  nothing  hidden.     What  a  mirror  ! 
Love,  I  would  look  down  in  the  golden  depths, 
And  find  reflection. 

Elgiva.     Dearest  heart,  believe. 
As  in  the  orchard  every  part  o'  the  tree 
Is  apple,  from  the  blossom  to  the  drooping 
O'  the  rosy,  laden  branches, — you  will  find 
No  part  of  me,  from  my  first,  girlish  joy 
In  your  young,  royal  face,  that  is  not  worship. 
Give  me  the  freedom  of  your  brow,  my  kisses 
Long  to  set  record  there. 

Edmu7id.    The  lips,  the  lips  !  {^passionately  kissing  /ler.] 
Elgiva,  we  are  lord  and  lady  here 
I'  the  flecking  sunlight ;  but  Canute  would  rend 
Our  England  from  us. 

Elgiva.     He  shall  be  repulsed  ; 
For  I  have  great  possessions,  and  have  suffered 
To  see  my  goodly  acres  in  the  hands 
Of  a  sea-farer  and  a  foreigner. 

Edmund.     Heir  to  your  husband's  confiscated  fiefs — 
Then  I  will  seek  my  father,  and  demand 
The  lordships. 

Elgiva.     Edmund,  let  them  be  my  gift ; 
Exact  no  rights.     Why  should  men  force  a  boon, 
Grasp  masterful,  and  take  from  us  our  joy — 
To  give,  to  give  ?     My  lands  are  yours  for  ever, 
Yours  with  their  wealth  of  stalwart  fighting-men, 


22  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

Yours  for  the  muster,  for  the  battlefield, 
The  bloodshed,  and  the  triumph ;  yours  at  last 
For  pasture,  blessed  as  this  golden  sward, 
When  you  are  England's  king. 

\E71ter  messenger?^ 

Edmund.     A  messenger ! 

Elgiva.     And   from    his    aspect   I   believe   he   bears 
Some  weighty  news. 

[Edmund  meets  the  messejiger.     They  co?iverse  apart ?[ 
To  lie  down  on  the  grass. 
Look  up  to  him,  and  feel  he  is  my  own  ! 
His  face  grows  solemn,  and  a  majesty 
Darkens  his  quiet  eyes.  \_Exit  messenger?^ 

Edmund.     King  Ethelred 
Hath  died  in  London.     My  true-hearted  city. 
Thee  I  possess  ;  but  of  my  ravaged  kingdom 
What  part  beside  ?     The  bishops,  aldermen, 
Are  all  without  the  walls,  and  will  elect 
The  valiant  young  Dane  who  rules  the  north. 
And  'gainst  the  stronghold  of  our  English  life 
Presses  his  splendid  fleet. 

Elgiva.     But  you  are  king ; 
Shire  will  help  shire  now  you  are  in  command, 
And  render  you  their  services  as  freely 
As  I  confer  my  love ;  for  I  am  England, 
Who,  when  I  doubted,  would  have  none  of  you, 
Who  pleaded  that  the  Dane  had  qualities 
Meet  for  men's  reverence  ;  and  rally  now 
All  native  forces  in  me  to  proclaim 
Edmund  my  lord.     Oh,  there  are  faithful  souls ; 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  23 

Trust  in  your  people,  give  your  heart  to  them, 
And  put  for  ever  from  your  side  the  churl, 
False-speaking  Edric. 

Edmimd.     Let  him  come  and  go  ; 
He  is  ill-governed.     Doubtless  he  fulfilled, 
Murdering  the  Danish  earl,  some  infamous 
Plot  of  my  father's.     I  shall  treat  him  well ; 
The  reign  of  vile  suspicion  is  at  end, 
And  honour  to  the  fore. 

Elgiva.     O  happy  country  ! 
I  never  saw  this  level  orchard-ground 
So  full  of  gleams  and  shades.     I  am  right  glad 
That  you  made  love  beneath  the  apple-trees  ; 
They  are  so  English,  and  their  rosy  fruit 
Is  plucked  in  tranquil,  happy,  autumn  days, 
Such  as  our  Edmund  will  restore  to  us. 
When  the  great  wars  are  ended.     A  sweet  spot ! 

\Exeiint?[ 

Scene  III.     Lofido?i.    Ethelred's  corpse^  on  a  great  bed^ 
in  a  large  room. 

Enter  Emma. 

Emma.     Thou  infamy,  the  harlots  found  thee  fair  ! 
Vindictive,  mercenary,  treacherous,  vile, 
A  laggard,  and  a  waverer ;  how  well 
Did  nature  fit  thee  for  thine  enemies, 
Thy  mistresses,  and  all  corrupting  things. 
The  worm  that  eats  thy  body  will  revolt 
At  the  unvirgin  soil.     Yea,  I  will  speak. 


24  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  [Act  I. 

Death  gives  us  widows  opportunity 

To  put  such  questions  as  at  judgment-day 

Will  rise  in  accusation.     From  my  anger 

Thou  canst  not  hide ;  thy  face  is  bare  and  fixed 

Before  my  eyes  and  lips.     Didst  thou  not  sport 

With  other  women,  while  I  bore  thee  sons 

With  Saxon  faces,  boys  so  like  their  father 

I  loathed  to  give  them  suck,  young  heritors 

Of  thy  unfeatured  kingship,  timid  lads. 

For  whom  I  begged  a  refuge  at  the  table 

Of  my  great  Norman  brother  ?     Dost  thou  hear  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  bribe  me  from  my  inquisition  ? 

Nay,  but  thy  Danish  foe  shall  take  thy  place. 

In  my  own  inmost  bower.     Ah  me,  ah  me  ! 

Bride  to  the  Viking  !     What  deep  modesty 

Restrains  me  from  the  thought  ?     I  grew  a  girl, 

When,  from  the  walls  of  London,  I  looked  down 

On  his  young,  glittering,  tempestuous  face. 

And  blushed,  and  gave  him  all  the  terms  he  sought 

To  win  one  smile.     I  look  about  the  chamber ; 

Do  I  resign  my  queenship  ?     I  am  fair, 

My  finger-tips  can  thrill  men  to  their  doom, 

And  my  whole  body  is  for  empery. 

I  do  not  crave  to  rule ;  I  crave  to  spend 

The  flower  o'  my  years,  my  faculties,  my  grace, 

In  service  of  a  simple,  king-like  man, 

Clean  as  the  ocean,  and  as  terrible 

I'  the  day  of  tempest. 

{Going  up  to  the  corpse?^     Redeless  thing,  thou'rt  dead. 

My  soul  peals  to  the  echo — dead,  dead,  dead  ! 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  25 

[Enter  Edric] 
What  brings  you  hither,  my  fair  son-in-law  ? 
Has  faithful  London  looked  upon  your  face, 
And  suffered  quiet  passage  through  her  streets  ? 
You  leave  the  Dane  ? 

Edric.     Since  you  would  have  me  give 
My  services  to  this  young  cub  of  Swend, 
I  give  them  ;  and  report  in  Edmund's  ear 
That  I  am  rallying  forces  in  the  north. 
But  for  my  presence — do  not  feign  surprise ; 
You  summoned  me  to  bear  you  to  the  court 
Of  Normandy.     I  am  obedient 
To  your  least  whim,  but  fear  that  I  have  journeyed 
O'er  hastily.     I  find  you  at  your  vigils. 

Emma.     Weeping  the  man  who  has  dishonoured  me. 

Edric.     There  is  a  sure  revenge.     Now  is  your  time 
For  freedom  and  for  pleasure. 

Emma.     Insolence ! 
[Aside^  gla?icing  toward  the  ded.]     I  would   not  be  his 

mate  in  anything, 
Nor  re-enact  his  lewdness.     I  am  free, 
Free,  till  I  love. — How  fares  the  Danish  monarch  ? 
We  met  once.     Edric,  does  he  speak  my  name 
In  the  same  way  as  yours  ? 

Edric.     'Tis  never  breathed 
Within  my  hearing. 

Emma.     Time  is  in  my  hair. 
[Aside,  taking  a  mirror.]     I  am  a  matron  and  a  queen, 

and  yet 
There  is  a  starving  girlhood  in  this  face. 


26  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  I. 

That  bitterly  contrasts. 

Edric.     Now  cheerly !     Once 
I  named  you,  and  he  started  to  his  feet, 
Calling  his  men  to  vanquish  Ethelred ; 
That  day  the  foe  was  routed. 

Emma,     Thane,  on  you 
I  build  my  future  and  my  blessedness. 
Let  not  his  ears  forget  my  syllables ; 
Picture  my  destiny. 

Edric.     I'll  make  it  ring. 

Em?jia.     You    shall    not    mention    me — except    my 
pride. 

Edric.     A  young  man  soon  forgets. 

Emma.     False,  false  ;  in  youth 
There  is  a  warm  fidelity  ;  all's  cold 
When  greybeards  hug  the  past.    [Aside.]  Oh,  my  beloved ! 

Edric.     Lady,  take  heart.     I  am  a  counsellor 
The  raw,  young  soldier  may  not  well  despise  ; 
And  I  will  show  him  the  advantage.     What ! 
You  blench ;  I  mean  I  will  extol  the  beauty 
Of  my  fair  mistress.     Yet  I  claim  reward. 
Come  now,  a  kiss. 

Ei7ima.     My  lips  are  put  away 
For  some  high  festival. 

Edric.     You  yield  your  hand  ? 

Emma.     As  I  were  still  a  queen.    It  costs  some  pangs 
To  part  with  royalty.     My  blessed  crown, 
My  fond,  familiar  circlet.     Ah,  alas  ! 
My  hair  falls  unsupported  by  this  wreath 
Of  gold. 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  27 

Edric.     A  fair  decline.     Put  this  aside, 

[Touching  the  crown.'] 
Or  rather,  press  it  to  your  hps,  and  swear 
To  give  me  of  your  widowhood  some  hours, 
Ere  you  again  are  royah 

Emma.     Edric,  hush  ! 
'Tis  my  ambition  makes  me  amorous  ; 
And  I  will  give  you  sweeter  recompense 
Than  any  woman's  favour  may  confer. 
Share  this  my  royal  passion ;  make  me  queen. 
And  I  will  win  for  you  the  highest  place 
In  the  young  Viking's  trust.     You  will  not  sway 
My  second  husband  as  you  swayed  my  first ; 
But  I  have  tracked  allegiance  in  your  eyes. 
You  feel  he  is  your  master. 

Edric.     Ironsides 
Has  valour. 

Emma.     And  a  child's  simplicity ; 
A  melancholy,  brave,  clear-purposed  man, 
Whom  any  knave  may  cozen.     Let  it  be 
Your  part  to  circumvent  him.     Love  the  Dane, 
And  you  shall  rise  in  honour. 

Edric.     Well,  I  swear — 
Give  me  your  hand  to  print  my  oath  upon. 

Emma.     Edric,  refrain  !     My  step-son  at  the  door, 
Must  not  behold  us  in  close  colloquy. 

[Edric  advances  to  the  door,  and  greets  Edmund.] 
Safe,  safe  !     He  has  not  touched  me. 
\_Looki?ig  toward  the  bed.]     Safe  from  hi7n, 
The  licensed  to  defile.     And  now  how  sweet 


28  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

My  maidenhood  returns  on  me.     To  fill 

Some  narrow  convent  bed  in  Normandy, 

Dream  of  Canute,  and  all  day  say  my  prayers  ! 

But  that  is  not  so  cleansing.     Oh,  this  love 

Is  a  diviner  power  than  holiness  ; 

It  puts  all  evil  past  imagining, 

And  crowds  the  soul  as  full  as  Paradise 

With  rapturous  desires.     Ah  me,  they  come. 

And  I  must  to  my  tears.     [Drooping  over  the  corpse?^ 

Edric  \io  Edmund].     You  give  consent, 
Most  noble  Atheling,  that  I  bear  away 
Your  lady-mother  to  Duke  Richard's  court  ? 

Edmund.     She  doubtless  will  be  welcome  there,  and 
here 
Adds  to  confusion.     Take  her  oversea. 

Emma  \Jialf-aside\.     I  cannot  leave  him,  such  a  proper 
man 
He  looks,  with  that  great  brow  and  curling  hair. 
He  has  won  many  hearts. 

\Enter  Edith  and  the  child.'] 

Edmund.     My  sister  comes 
To  pray  for  the  great  dead.     Disturb  her  not 
By  more  than  briefest  parting. 

Edric.     My  sweet  wife. 
You  bring  our  boy  to  look  upon  your  sire  ; 
May  he  repeat  his  virtues  !     [Edith  shudders?^ 

Edmund  [to   the  child ^  drawing  him  away  from   the 
bed\     Ah,  my  man, 
Your  grandsire  was  so  loved,  when  wicked  Swend 
Was  smitten  by  St.  Edmund,  whose  dear  name 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  29 

I  bear,  the  English  people  called  him  home 

To  govern  them  again.     They  rally  now 

Round  me,  his  son,  your  king.     Down  on  your  knees  ; 

You  rascal,  do  me  homage  ! 

Child  \_glancmg  fearfully  at  the  corpse\    Who  has  made 
him 
Like  that  ?     O  father  ! 

Edric.     See  the  lad  !     He  thinks 
That  I  have  power  of  life  and  death.     [Aside.]     I  train 

him 
To  wither  at  a  look.     Though  terrified, 
He  shall  be  forced  to  creep  up  to  the  corpse. 
And  touch  it. — \_Alotid.'\  Come  now,  kiss  your  grandfather. 
He  cannot  hurt  you.     Never  be  afraid. 
[The  child  goes  straight  up  to  the  kifig's  body,  and  shrieks ?\^ 
[To  Edmund.]     He  does  whate'er  I  tell  him;  I  can  count 
On  that. — Now,  sirrah,  down  upon  your  knees ; 
You  must  learn  all  your  duty.     Swear  to  fight 
For  good  King  Edmund. 

Child.     I  shall  be  a  priest. 
But  I  will  bless  your  armies.     I  am  glad 
That  you  will  rule. 

Edric  [to  Edith].     I  go  to  Normandy, 
My  saintly  princess.     To  your  brother's  care 
And  your  just  grief  I  leave  you.     But  our  boy — 

Edmund.     I  will  instruct  my  nephew. 

Emma  [embracing  the  child\     Dearest  child, 
My  infant  Ethelred,  thy  living  cheek 
Shall  take  the  print  of  my  last  English  kiss  ; 
For,  oh,  I  cannot  give  my  lips  again 


30  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

To  that  cold,  marble  brow.  \To  Edmund.]  Our  elder  son, 
Recover  our  lost  kingdom. 

Edric.     Noble  prince, 
I  shall  make  haste  to  hear  the  proclamation 
Of  your  new  royalties,  when  this  fair  lady 
Is  rendered  to  her  kinsman.  [Aside.]    Mark  my  purpose ; 
To  rid  you  of  the  dowager  means  friendship, — 
No  step-dame  on  the  throne  ! 

Edmimd.     Lady,  farewell.  [Exeunt  Emma  and  Edric] 

Edith.     My  brother  !  What,  together  and  alone 
By  this  dear  bed — to  clasp  you  in  my  arms. 
To  feel  that  you  are  here,  our  country's  lord 
And  saviour,  and  that  no  usurper's  hand 
Will  tear  our  father's  crown  ! 

Ed?mmd.     Dear,  send  the  boy 
Away  ;  his  eyes  are  wandering  fearfully, 
Too  shy  to  look  upon  this  stranger,  Death, 
That  puts  us  from  our  ease,  who  every  day 
Encounter  him. 

Edith.     Go,  darling,  to  your  prayers 
In  the  near  chamber.      [Exit  ehild.]     All  the  Londoners 
Are  staunchly  yours  ? 

Edmund.     Edith,  all  Englishmen 
Are  mine  ;  they  lack  a  leader,  but  their  faith 
Is  without  flaw. 

Edith.     You  think  there  will  be  peace  ? 

Edmu7id,     Hard  fighting  rather.      We  will  give  our 
blood 
To  these  invaders,  and  our  gold  shall  feed 
The  sick  and  hungry.     Glorious  battlefields 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  31 

Shall  glow  upon  our  southern  pasture  plains  \ 
Where  the  sheep  graze  such  victories  shall  be  won 
As  shall  not  need  the  cairn  to  chronicle. 
Edith,  I  bear  my  people  in  my  heart 
As  bard  his  unbreathed  song. 

Edith.     Yet  stay  to  mourn 
Our  father ;  he  is  desolate  and  cold. 
Let  me  draw  back  the  curtain. 

Edmund  [looking  steadfastly  at  Ethelred].     A\  no 
bribes, 
No  hostages,  thyself 
To  pay  the  penalty  when  death  exacts. 
No  more  evasion,  the  straight  road  to  hell, 
And  Judas'  bag  for  thy  blood-rusted  gold. 
Away,  to  the  true  miser  ! 

Edith.     Edmund,  Edmund ! 
Give  him  your  prayers  ;  we  may  redeem  him  still. 

Ednnmd.     From  his  deserts  ?  Then  I  shake  off  religion. 
Heaven  looks  facts  in  the  face  ;  he  sold  his  country, 
Which  in  a  king  is  as  he  sold  his  God. 
He  made  all  fearful,  for  he  put  no  trust 
In  any  man,  and  he  has  died  a  stranger 
To  life's  sweet  faiths  and  holy  confidence. 
He  leaves  a  Danish  heir,  but  honest  Edric 
Makes  secret  preparation  for  my  rule. 

Edith    \nervously    caressing    hin{\.      When   we   were 
children,  and  your  play-fellows 
Would  cheat  at  games,  you  let  me  counsel  you. 
And  show  who  played  you  false.     As  king,  beware  ; 
Lean  not  on  Edric's  love. 


32  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

Edmund.     Edith,  your  husband  ! 
I  never  will  be  warned  the  damned  way 
Of  vile  suspicion.     You  misjudge  the  thane, 
And  irritate  his  plain,  outspoken  nature 
With  timid  reticence. 

Edith.     One  cannot  love 
A  stranger  as  one  loves  the  face  one  knows 
As  early  as  the  sky. 

Edmund.     Dear  heart,  although 
The  pompous  Emma  from  our  mother's  tomb 
Hath  turned  the  people's  thoughts,  we  two  possess. 
Each  in  the  other,  a  fair  gift  of  hers 
For  keepsake  and  remembrance.     Hast  thou  heard 
Of  my  great  joy  ?     Elgiva  is  my  wife, 
And  of  her  frank,  sweet  nature  I  will  get 
A  race  clear  as  the  stars.     Your  pretty  lad. 
For  his  sake  I  could  wish  a  brood  of  girls  ; 
All  Cerdic's  majesty  is  in  his  face ; 
Though  he  is  sickly.     .     .     Alfred  as  a  child 
Was  fragile,  loved  his  missal.     Never  fear 
But  he  will  make  a  man,  though  full  of  thought, 
And  blue-eyed  as  an  angel.     Comfort,  love  ! 
Will  you  not  come  along  ?     The  priests  attend. 
Then  I  must  bid  farewell. 

\TIiey  kiss.     Exit  Edmund.] 

Edith.     How  angrily 
They  all  turn  from  his  pillow  !     In  the  midst 
Of  the  great  winter  storms  I  often  sighed 
To  be  with  those  whom  the  encircling  sea. 
When  it  blew  inward  on  our  isle,  submerged. 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  33 

I  think  they  will  lie  quiet  in  the  deep, 

Unharassed  by  the  Judgment :  no  account 

Is  left  of  them ;  their  villages  and  towns 

Have  all  escaped  taxation  and  distress  ; 

They  are  no  more  bewildered  by  the  dread 

Of  an  invader  ; — whilst,  alas  !   these  kings 

Can  lay  no  hold  upon  oblivion. 

There  is  great  beauty  still  upon  his  face ; 

It  hath  not  been  beloved.     Infirmity 

Sows  sorer  rancour  in  men's  hearts  than  crime  : 

I  know  not  why.     He  shall  have  many  prayers. 

\She  kneels  by  the  bed.      Enter  monks  chanting?^ 

Scene  IV.     Southampton, 

Enter  Canute,  Hardegon,  E?tglish  and  Danes. 

Canute.     Ye  have  proclaimed  me  king  !     'Tis  said  at 
London 
The  citizens  choose  otherwise  ;  no  more 
In  terror  of  my  girding  troops,  they  give 
Oaths  to  the  untried  son  of  Ethelred. 
Where  lies  your  loyalty  ?     Has  Ironsides 
Your  secret  love  ?     Or  do  you  give  your  hearts 
To  me,  receive  me  as  your  rightful  lord, 
Trust  me  to  cleanse  the  country  of  all  robbers. 
Liars  and  cheats,  and  ever  doom  just  dooms 
Alike  to  rich  and  poor  ?     Will  ye  exalt 
My  dignity,  and  follow  my  command, 
As  mindful  all  ye  do  in  faithfulness 
Is  to  your  own  behoof? 

D 


34  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  [Act  I. 

English.     We  will  maintain 
Our  choice,  and  with  a  strict  fidelity 
Cleave  to  our  King  Canute. 

Ca?tute.     Now  ye  are  mine 
I  will  re-knit  your  virtue,  make  your  throne 
A  seat  of  glory.     Think  not  whence  I  am  ; 
Let  Danes  and  Englishmen  beneath  my  sway 
Become  a  world-known  race.     Bear  witness  all 
How  I  love  England, — her  enfolding  seas, 
Her  woods,  her  valley-hay  fields,  river-sheds 
Where  cattle  graze  the  meadows.     I  was  born 
In  haunts  of  desolation  ;  here  abides 
A  sense  of  times  gone  by,  of  ancient  law, 
Religious  benediction.     My  wild  home 
Seems  but  mere  earth  on  which  to  breathe  and  eat ; 
This  island  has  a  human,  blessed  bond 
Between  itself  and  men. 

English.     'Tis  yours  to  hold. 
And  govern  as  you  will ;  we  bow  beneath 
The  dictates  of  your  pleasure  ;  there  is  nought 
On  earth  that  may  resist  you. 
Canute  [aside].     Flattery  ! 
They  think  me  a  dull  savage. — Ye  have  spoken 
Beyond  the  truth.     I  bid  you  turn  and  look 
Upon  those  billows  sweeping  to  the  shore. 
With  augment,  arch,  depression.     Do  you  tell  me 
That  they  would  stay  their  muster,  check  their  onslaught 
And  fury  of  defiance  at  my  bidding  ? 
If  you  would  love  me,  give  me  faithful  tongues 
In  all  you  say — I  have  no  appetite 


5c.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  35 

For  adulation.     Go  ye  hence,  and  gather 
An  army  meet  to  grapple  with  great  Edmund  : 
For  ye  have  chosen  me,  but  your  election 
Hard  fighting  must  confirm. 

English.     Long  live  the  king  !     \Exeu7it?\ 

Hardegon.  We  gave  these  pretty  Englishmen  the 
breath  of  flames  and  the  smoke  of  homesteads.  Now  it 
is  all  excellent  England.  Enemies,  I  take  it,  are  as  natural 
to  a  man  as  babes  to  a  woman.  Ghosts  of  the  Vikings  ! 
Would  our  mothers  know  our  voices  ? 

Canute.  I  am  king  now  in  a  country  where  there  is 
corn-growing  and  the  sound  of  bells.  I  must  be  a  Christian. 

Hardegon.  And  you  know  not  a  word  of  the  mystery. 
You  a  Christian  !  Ay,  stick  your  great  hands  in  your  hair 
and  redden.     They'll  have  the  laugh  of  you. 

Canute.  I  will  learn,  I  must  alter.  I  am  not  simply 
the  grand-child  of  Gorm.  These  battle-fields  are  just  the 
beginning.     Afterwards.     .     .     . 

Hardegon.  The  folly  !  Rob  a  man  of  his  ancestors, 
you  take  all.  My  best  hope  is  to  become  an  ancestor 
— no  hold  on  posterity,  if  you  be  not  a  god  to  it.  Then 
just  think  what  a  time  it  takes  a  bit  of  coast  to  vary  ! 
When  I  sail  up  the  fiords,  the  water-falls  drop  from  the 
same  cliff,  the  walls  of  the  white  steeps  have  not  budged. 
And  we  reckon  on  these  things.  If  they  fail,  there  is  no 
stability.  I  ask  you,  are  not  the  gods  changeless,  must 
not  divinity  dwell  among  the  old  ways  ? 

Canute.  O  Hardegon,  there  are  answers  to  these 
questions;  they  are  coming  on  the  waves  to  me.  \Looking 
out  on  the  sea  abstractedly ^^^ 


36  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

\Eiiter  Thororin.] 

TJiororin.  Listen  !  my  harp  is  tuned  ;  it  shivers  to 
praise  you.  I  have  had  a  great  madness  to  sing  as  I  saw  the 
warriors  gather,  and  heard  the  blast  take  your  name  inland. 

Canute  \u7iheeding\.  No  wisdom  near  me, — a  dunce 
and  a  ruler  !  Oh,  this  shame  of  ignorance,  that  will  not 
hide  itself;  that  must  come  out,  and  suffer,  and  be 
mocked  !  I  sob  all  night  for  the  misery.  '  Tis  a  secret 
that  cannot  be  kept,  yet  the  breaking  it.  .  .  If  one 
loved  me  !  [seeing  Thororin.]  Oh,  how  horrible  !  More 
praise  of  my  big  sinews.     I'll  be  sullen.     \_Tiir?is  away.'] 

Thororin.  Deaf  to  my  exaltation,  no  ear  for  a  poet ! 
Let  me  beg.  Sire,  you  listen  to  my  song ;  it  is  short. 

Canute.  And  I  am  the  subject.  The  insolence  of  these 
verse-makers !  They  would  have  all  life  a  general  ear  for 
their  bit  of  piping  breath,  or  they  stare  and  begin  to  rail. 
Off  with  you,  minstrel !  Thirty  strophes  more  of  your 
theme,  or  you  lose  your  head  to-morrow. 

Thororin.  Pshaw  ! — but  the  threat  is  nothing.  The 
wind,  a  sand-hill,  and  a  cry  for  dreams,  and  I  am  full  of 
singing  that  instant. 

Canute.  Thirty  strophes,  and  stuffed  with  comparisons 
and  reverence.  [Exit  Thororin.] 

Hardegon.  How  he  twirls  his  finger  round  the  flames 
on  his  lip,  all  impatience  for  me  to  go.  He  has  a  sea- 
bred  face.  '  Tis  a  shame  for  the  true,  old  things  to 
lose  him.  I  will  bring  one  who  can  speak — with  a  voice 
that  is  like  the  rush  of  water  from  amid  the  foam  of  her 
hair — Gunhild,  the  prophetess. 

\To  Canute.]  Strange,  you  should  have  taken  to 
fretting,  and  all  since  the  siege  of  London  !  \Exit^ 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT,  ^7 

Canute.    All,  all  since  then.    Ah,  yes !    Above  me  bent 
A  sweet,  soft-shouldered  woman,  with  supreme, 
Abashing  eyes,  and  such  maturity — 
The  perfect  flower  of  years — such  June  of  face     .     .     . 
So  ceremonious,  and  yet  so  fearless 
In  passionate  grace,  that  I  was  struck  with  shame, 
And  knew  not  where  I  was,  nor  how  to  speak. 
Confounded  to  the  heart.     She  made  me  feel 
That  I  was  lawless  and  uncivilized, — 
Barbarian  !     In  all  my  brave  array 
I  shrank  from  her,  as  she  had  caught  me  stripped 
For  some  brute  pastime.     Is  this  womanhood  ? 
There's  more  to  see  each  time  one  looks  at  her. 
There's  music  in  her ;  she  has  listened  much. 
Pored  o'er  the  lustrous  missals,  learnt  how  soft 
One  speaks  to  God,  with  silky  filaments 
Woven  weird  pictures  of  the  fates  of  men. 
Her  smile  is  not  a  new-born  thing,  'tis  old. 
And  mellow  as  the  uncut,  timeless  jewel. 
Her  forehead's  runic, — it  is  just  to-day 
On  other  faces,  but  this  lady's  brows 
Are  full  of  fond  tradition  and  romance. 
I'll  be  her  scholar,  she  shall  teach  me  all, 
And  change — yea,  as  I  love  her,  I  am  changed 
In  my  ambition,  in  my  appetites, 
In  my  blood,  and  aspiration.     \Turning  to  some  parch- 

ments.']     For  her  sake 
I  wrestle  with  these  laws.     My  eyes  are  dim. 
Worn  out  with  gazing,  and  my  brain  is  slow 
To  take  the  import.     Sometimes  on  my  vessel 


38  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  I. 

When  my  dull  brain  is  drowsy  with  the  salt, 
I  muse  on  this  new  wisdom,  till  its  weight 
Oppresses  me  with  slumber,  as  it  rises 
In  such  great  bulk  before  me. 

\Reads  the  parchments^  sittijtg. 

[Re-enter  Hardegon  with  Gunhild.] 

Hardegon.     At  his  learning  ! 
Deal  with  him,  spare  him  not. 

Catmte.     Whom  hast  thou  brought  ? 
A  brooding  face,  with  windy  sea  of  hair, 
And  eyes  whose  ample  vision  ebbs  no  more 
Than  waters  from  a  fiord.     I  conceive 
A  dread  of  things  familiar  as  she  breathes. 

Gunhild.     O  king. 

Ca?mte.     Ay,  Scandinavia. 

Gunhild.     He  sees 
How  with  a  country's  might  I  cross  his  door  ; 
How  in  me  all  his  youth  was  spent,  in  me 
His  ancestors  are  buried  ;  on  my  brows 
Inscribed  is  his  religion  ;  through  my  frame 
Press  the  great,  goading  forces  of  the  waves. 

Ca?mte.     Art  thou  a  woman  ? 

Gunhild.    Not  to  thee.     I  am 
Thy  past. 

Canute.     Her  arms  are  knotted  in  her  bosom 
Like  ivy-stems.     What  does  she  here,  so  fixed 
Before  my  seat  ? 

Gunhild.     Hearken  !     I  wandered  out 
Among  the  brake-fern,  and  the  upright  flags, 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  3i9 

And  snatching  brambles,  when  the  sun  was  gone, 
And  the  west  yellow  underneath  the  night. 
A  fir-bough  rolled  its  mass  athwart  my  way, 
With  a  black  fowl  thereon.     All  eve  I  stood 
And  gathered  in  your  fate.     You  raise  your  hands 
To  other  gods,  you  speak  another  tongue. 
You  learn  strange  things  on  which  is  Odin's  seal 
That  men  should  know  them  not,  you  cast  the  billows 
Behind  your  back,  and  leap  upon  the  horse. 
You  love  no  more  the  North  that  fashioned  you, 
The  ancestors  whose  blood  is  in  your  heart : — 
These  things  you  have  forgotten. 

Canute.     Yes. 

Gunhild.     But  they 
Will  have  a  longer  memory.     Alas, 
The  mournfulness  that  draws  about  my  breasts  ! 
W^oe,  Woe  !     There  is  a  justice  of  the  Norn, 
Who  sings  about  the  cradle. 

Canute.     Speak  thy  worst. 

\_Aside^  risi?ig  and  pad?ig  apart.']     How  different  my 
queen  !     How  liberal 
The  splendour  of  her  smile  !     This  woman's  frown 
Is  tyrannous.     So  will  my  country  look. 
When  I  sail  back  next  year ;  for  I  shall  feel 
A  dread,  a  disappointment,  and  a  love 
I  loathe,  it  comes  up  from  so  deep  a  well, 
Where  I  am  sod  and  darkness. 

Gunhild.     At  thy  birth 
Sang  Urd  of  foregone  things,  of  thy  wild  race, 
Of  rocks  and  fir-trees  that  for  ages  past 


40  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

Stood  in  thy  native  bounds,  of  creeping  seas, 
That  call  thy  countrymen  to  journey  forth 
Among  strange  people ;  and  her  song  went  on 
As  flesh  was  woven  for  thee  in  the  womb ; 
It  cannot  be  forgotten,  for  she  sang 
Beginnings. 

Canute.     O  grey-headed  tyrannies 
Of  yore,  I  will  escape  you. 

Gunhild.     Verily, 
They  have  requital.     Thou  wilt  get  a  child  : 
Will  it  not  draw  from  the  deep  parts  of  life ; 
Will  it  not  take  of  thee  that  disposition. 
Old  as  the  hills,  and  as  the  waterfall, 
Whose  foam  alone  was  ever  seen  by  man  ? 
Thou  wilt  produce  a  being  of  thy  past, 
And  all  thy  change  avail  not. 

Hardegon.     How  these  women 
Can  sing  foundations  ! 

Canute.     If  in  those  I  breed 
It  work  no  blessing,  to  myself  this  new, 
Unsettled  energy  within  my  brain 
Is  worth  all  odds.     I  cannot  understand 
Half  that  is  meeting  me.     Go  hence,  your  face 
Is  sheer  confusion  to  me;  it  brings  back 
The  load  of  ignorance,  the  brutishness, 
The  fetters  of  nativity. 

Gunhild.     I  go : 
But  wrathful  leave  behind  me  what  was  told 
When  the  crow  bent  from  the  swirled  plume  of  fir, 
And  held  me  like  a  statue. 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT 

Canute.     O  my  past, 
I  loved  thine  aspect  once,  but  now  my  mind 
Drives  thee  away.     It  seems  to  me  that  thought 
Is  as  a  moving  on  along  the  air — 
I  cannot  yet  find  language.     You  oppress. 
And  hinder  me  ;  but  when  I  brood  alone, 
Hope  stirs,  and  there  is  tumult  of  a  joy. 
That  flashes  through  my  nature,  like  a  sword, 
Cutting  the  knots. 

Gunhild.    Oh,  indestructible 
Are  the  first  bonds  of  living.     Fare  thee  well. 
Thou  wilt  engender  thine  own  ancestry  ; 
Nature  will  have  her  permanence. 

Canute.     And  I 
Will  have  my  impulse. 

Gunhild.     Oh,  the  blue  fir-bough. 
The  bird,  the  fern,  and  iris  at  my  feet ! 
The  whole  world  talks  of  birth,  it  is  the  secret 
That  shudders  through  all  sap.  [^.r//.] 

Cafiute.     She  turns  away 
With  rigid  shoulders,  and  is  vanishing 
For  ever.     'Tis  in  wrestles  with  her  like 
We  are  transformed. 

[To  Hardegon.]     Call  Edric,  do  you  hear  ! 
And  say  no  other  word  as  you  would  live  ; 
My  temper  will  not  bear  it.     \_Exit  Hardegon] 

Winsome  queen, 
Emma,  great  lady,  could  I  reach  thy  feet, 
Thou  hadst  ne'er  known  such  homage.     It  is  youth, 
Youth  in  its  awful  kindling ;  it  is  love, 


42  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

When  all  the  body  is  possessed  by  want 

Of  what  it  would  be  worthy  of ; — such  youth, 

Such  love  I  give  thee.     Deeper  than  my  race, 

Deeper  than  all  my  past  thy  sway  is  set ; 

So  able  are  thy  brows,  such  strength  is  thine, 

Thou  art  beneath  all  other  elements^ 

They  are  no  more  the  same.     Oh,  wonderful ! 

For  I  have  clipped  a  woman  in  my  arms. 

The  silent  Elfgifu,  my  Danish  wife ; 

And  I  have  known  the  pleasures,  but  they  passed  ; 

I  was  not  altered ;  in  my  head  no  light. 

No  current  through  my  faculties,  no  whirl 

Of  giddy  charm. 

\_E71fer  Edric]     Edric,  you  are  the  man  ; 
You  have  the  opportunity  that  chance 
Withholds  from  me. 

Edric  [aside].     He  tramps  about  and  catches 
His  garment's  hem,  a  burning  in  his  eyes. — 
Speak  out,  and  plainly. 

CaJitite.     Ha  ! — The  troops  come  in  ? 
Do  they  not  muster  ?     I  am  thinking,  Edric, 
'Tis  time  now  for  my  tactics,  for  the  plan 
Of  conquest  and  repulse.     You'll  find  me  keen, 
And  ready  as  a  captain. 

Edric.     I  could  swear 
You  have  resource.     You  are  a  soldier's  son. 
And  know  how  valid  is  the  right  of  craft 
Toward  foemen. 

Canute.     Yes,  to  take  them  unawares 
By  artifice  and  ambush.     Look  you,  thane, 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  43 

I  must  possess  this  kingdom.     I  am  moved 
To  actions  of  vast  consequence,  and  need 
Space  for  great  laws,  the  power  to  mould  a  nation 
To  flawless  homage.     What  the  means  you  choose 
I  care  not  j  anything  I  hold  as  just 
That  will  establish  justice. 

Edrk.     So  I  think. 

Canute  [aside].     My  breath  draws  back  her  name  from 
off  my  tongue ; 
I  cannot  utter  it. 

Edric.     The  army  grows, 
The  Rave7i  flaps  for  victory,  my  pate 
Teems  with  its  stratagems.     Soon  will  you  be 
A  single  ruler  ;  though  perchance  you'll  ask 
Another  for  her  company.     [Aside.]     He's  red, 
As  if  the  northern  light  leapt  through  his  face ; 
Ho,  ho  !     Can't  keep  his  counsel. — Is  your  mind 
Set  on  the  empire  of  a  bachelor  ? 
You  own  too  hot  a  pulse. 

Canute.     I  have  no  doubt 
But  I  shall  marry. 

Edric.     Where's  the  wife  to  match 
An  eagle  of  your  plumage  ? 

Ca7iuie.     All  the  world 
Is  full  of  stately  women. 

Edric.     I  have  seen 
But  one,  the  late  king's  widow.     She  is  prime 
Among  all  dames. 

Cai2ute.     You  think  that  you  have  seen  her, 
Because  you  know  she  has  a  radiant  skin, 
And  strange,  proud  eyes  ! 


44  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  I. 

Edric.     Ah,  you  are  touched,  young  man  ! 
But  she  is  twice  your  age. 

Ca7iute.     She  is  beloved 
Past  any  other  woman,  who  was  dear 
In  former  times.     She  holds  her  century's 
Most  choice  attainments. 

Edric.     Will  it  flatter  you 
To  learn  that  she  would  throw  away  her  veil, 
Her  husband  being  buried  but  a  week, 
To  kiss  that  lip  of  yours  ? 

Canute.     Impossible ! 
A  brute  like  me,  a  child  in  all  but  strength, 
A  Christian  but  in  name,  her  enemy, 
A  spoiler,  temple-burner,  pirate, — she. 
Wise,  excellent  in  grace. 

Edric.     Yet  she  is  yours. 
With  all  a  woman's  haste  ;  you  are  the  theme 
On  which  she  spends  her  wisdom. 

Canute.     Such  a  moment — 
My  future — 

Edric.     He  is  deaf  to  what  I  say. 
All  fire  and  trembling,  ho  ! 

Canute.     My  fate  is  turned 
Like  a  great  river  from  its  primal  bed 
Round  by  new  thorpes  and  fields.     My  thankfulness 
Is  this  :  she  stoops  to  love  me,  but  a  man 
Grows  up  within  me  she  may  proudly  call 
Her  lover.     Edric,  I  will  never  ask  ' 

The  honour  of  her  fairest  hand,  will  never 
Take  from  her  lips  the  glory  of  a  kiss, 
Till  I  am  firmly  king. 


Sc.  IV.l  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  45 

Edric.     I'll  drop  some  words 
To  keep  her  merry,  she  will  bide  her  time  ; 
Women  can  wait  by  nature. 

Camite.     Scheme,  have  ready 
Arms  and  provision.     I  will  go  elsewhere, 
And  study.     Read  this  passage  from  the  scroll ; 
The  language  puzzles  me.     It  runs — 

Edric,     Like  this — 
If  a  7na7i  be  slain,  we  estimate  all  equally  dear  at  forty 
talents  of  pure  gold. 

Canute.     These  laws  will  I  remodel,  when  I  read 
The  meanings  plainly.     They  shall  be  enforced 
Through   the  land's  length  and  breadth ;    and  he  who 

kills 
Pay  the  due  sum.     [Aside.]     I  must  out  to  the  air. 
And  splash  of  the  full  tide.     My  joy  as  yet 
Is  lightning,  thunder  in  my  sense,  a  storm 
Knit  up  to  break  in  fury. — Give  me  this, 
That  parchment,  and  let  no  one  follow  me. 

Edric.     A  word  of  dalliance,  a  sugared  speech 
To  carry  to  the  widow,  co^e  ! 

Canute  [aside].     The  fool ! 
I  cannot  speak. — Take  her  my  silence,  thane. 

[Exeunt  several y.] 


46  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  Assandun.  The  English  ariny  on  high  ground 
above  the  river  Crouch.  The  DaJiish  army  on  lower 
ground^  moving  with  booty  toward  their  ships. 

Enter  Edmund. 

Edmund.     Under  the  royal  ensign  I  await 
The  Danish  onslaught ;  but  I  fear  the  cowards 
Refuse  to  grapple,  and  with  robber-stealth 
Are  slinking  to  their  ships.     Can  I  remain 
Here  in  my  strong  position  on  the  hill, 
And  see  the  wealth  of  ravaged  Mercia  borne 
To  pirate  vessels  ?     [Enter  Edric]     Edric,  you  mistake 
The  English  keep  the  heights  ;  your  Danish  chieftain 
Is  skulking  with  his  booty  to  the  shore. 

Edric.     Now  what  a  temper  !  I  have  grown  so  artful 
In  tactics  that  you  take  me  for  a  spy ; 
Yet  in  your  six  great  battles  I  have  helped, 
As  if  I  stood  beside  you, — veered  about. 
Given  your  foes  false  hope,  and  spurred  them  on, 
Then  back  to  my  true  post.     As  for  my  motive 
In  joining  you  to-day,  I  tell  you  plainly, 
I  acted  from  a  passion  in  my  veins 
That  drove  me  hither.     In  the  foreign  herd 
I  could  not  tarry. 

Edmu7id.     It  was  natural. 
Your  country  in  such  peril.     I  rejoice 
To  have  you  by  my  side,  and  thus  to  turn  you 
From  action  that  discomforted  my  mind. 
And  often  stained  your  honour.     Look  below. 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  47 

Canute  is  marching  by  the  river-bed, 
Laden  with  plunder  :  we  must  intercept : 
He  shall  not  carry  my  dear  England's  wealth 
Of  corn  and  cattle  to  the  fallow  ocean. 
In  proof  of  trust  I  give  you  your  old  troops, 
The  stalwart  Mercian  bands  ;  but,  Streona, 
Let  there  be  honest  fighting.  All  my  soul 
Abhors  deceit.     It  ill  becomes  a  Christian, 
An  Englishman,  to  play  his  wits  against 
A  rude,  untutored  warrior. 

Edric.     To-day 
I  show  you  my  true  colours ;  you  shall  learn 
My  inner  disposition. 

Edmund  \to  his  ariny\.     Englishmen, 
Attack  those  recreants  hastening  to  the  sea ; 
Hard  hand-play  give  the  robbers,  beat  them  off 
From  shelter  of  their  boats.     Your  fathers'  spirit 
Make  ye  defenders  of  the  land,  its  fame. 
Its  homes,  its  ancient  crown.     Think  of  the  days 
When  Alfred  rose  among  ye,  how  he  smote 
The  northern  hosts,  and  drove  them  from  his  fields. 
Ye  have  been  faithful  to  me,  and  have  followed 
The  hurry  of  my  marches,  borne  scant  fare. 
Tempest,  and  cold,  and  weariness.     Together 
Six  times  have  we  encountered  on  the  plain 
Yon  scowling  mariners,  and  God  has  given 
A  measure  of  success.     With  rush  of  banners. 
Descend,  and  strike  them  as  a  thunder-bolt.     {Exeunt?^ 
[On    the    lower     ground    ejiter    Canute,    Hardegon, 
Thororin,  and  Danes.'] 

Hardegon.     The  enemy  is  on  us  and  our  ranks 


48  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  [Act  II. 


Waver  and  break ;  they  would  not  thus  have  faltered 
If  Swend  had  marshalled  them  ;  he  stood  so  tall, 
And  bellowed  out  his  orders. 

Thororin  \_wavi71g  the  Danish  flag\.  Let  them  see 
The  glorious  sign — our  Raven's  open  beak, 
And  wings  that  flap  triumphant  in  the  wind  ! 
Good  is  the  omen ;  when  those  plumes  are  stirred 
The  hour  is  come  for  fated  warriors 
To  fall  beneath  the  battle-axe. 

Canute.     Stand  firm ! 
Give  them  no  inch  of  ground.     Though  young  in  years, 
My  father  trained  my  hands  to  slaughter,  filled  me 
With  great  ambition  for  the  raging  field, 
Its  noble  chances.     In  this  valley's  breadth 
Free  space  is  given.     Manfully  resist. 

\Re-enter  Edmund,  and  English^ 

Edmund.     I  sought  you  through  the  ranks.     I  know 
your  helm. 
And  fierce,  bright  eyes.     You  are  the  Danish  chief. 

Canute.     The  king  of  England. 

Edmund.     I  deny  the  name 
To  any  stranger  in  whose  alien  veins 
The  blood  of  Cerdic  flows  not.     The  great  title 
Is  mine  by  birthright  and  election. 

Canute.     I 
Have  half  the  country's  voice ;  my  father  swayed 
These  lands  before  me.     I  will  have  my  own. 
We'll  speak  together  with  the  noise  of  swords ; 
That  talk  may  have  an  issue. 

Edmund.     So  it  shall. 

\Strikes  at  Canute  vehemently.     Exit.'] 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  49 

Hardegon.     Danes,  to  your  king  !      His  shield  is  cut 
in  twain. 

Cafiute.     Back,  fools ;  must  I  be  cheated  of  revenge  ! 
He  goes,  and  I  am  left  with  cloven  arms, 
Abased  and  powerless. 

Hardegon.     Odin,  how  they  press  us  ! 
Retreat,  or  we  are  lost. 

Cafiute.     God  only  knows 
Which  shall  be  master ;  I  will  wait  the  end, 
And  then  myself  cut  down  my  clouded  youth. 
If  I  am  vanquished.     Curse  that  heavy  blow  ; 
It  stunned  me  like  a  giant.     Down  it  crashed, 
And  brought  a  darkness  after  it. 

Thororin.     My  king, 
A  cruel  fortune  works  against  our  powers  ; 
Our  fighting  men,  who  struggle  with  set  teeth, 
Are  beaten.     I  am  weary,  sick  of  war. 
To  see  the  hostile  folk  upon  our  track, 
Hewing  behind  our  fugitives  ! 

Canute.     The  English 
Are  now  disturbed  ;  for,  with  a  whirlpool's  sweep, 
Half  of  their  army  swings  round  to  our  side. 
Ah,  it  is  Edric  !     He  will  save  the  day ; 
He  has  deserted.     Shout  your  welcome  loud ; 
Pour  forth  your  darts,  and  speed  your  death-spears  'gainst 
The  trapped  and  yielding  English. 

{Re-enter  Edric] 

Edric.     You  may  fight. 
But  I  defeat  them  with  my  trickery. 
They  cannot  stand  against  me.     All  is  lost 

E 


50  CANUTE    THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

For  them  ;  for  you,  all  gained. 

Ca7mte.     Hack,  slay,  o'erwhelm  !     \^Exit?\ 

\The  English  and  Da7ies  fight  desperately ?\ 

An  Englishman  [pointing  to  Edric].      There  is  the 
traitor,  the  deceiver.     Shame  ! 
The  curse  of  ignominy  take  the  wretch  ; 
May  his  own  snares  entrap  him ! 

Aiiother.     As  we  fall 
Our  race  disowns  him.     See,  from  our  last  glances 
The  devil  shrinks,  and  turns.     Comrades,  farewell. 

Another.     Farewell,  for  we  must  perish,  if  we  stand. 

\The  English  are  slain.     Exeunt  Dajies  and  Edric] 
*  -J?-  -s?-  *  -x- 

[Enter  Edmund.] 
Ednuind.      Late,    and   so    many    slain !      A    narrov^ 
kingdom. 
But  yet  of  honest  souls.     Oh,  I  could  stoop. 
And  kiss  them,  as  a  woman,  one  by  one. 
The  brave,  blue  eyes  !  Each  step  a  recognition. 
Ulfcytel,  Wulfsige  !     My  Ethelweard  ! 
I  would  keep  watch  beside  you,  did  no  remnant 
Wander  the  darkness  for  King  Edmund's  voice. 
Brave  hearts  still  ache  for  me.     It  is  enough  ! 
I  will  divide  my  kingdom  with  my  foe ; 
We  will  rule  neighbour  chieftains.     And  Canute 
Shall  feel  the  virtue  of  my  severed  lands 
Pass  through  his  blood  ?     It  is  impossible ; 
What  barrier  could  divide  us  ?     If  a  river 
Were  made  the  confine,  I  would  breast  the  current ; 
Or  if  the  pleasant  ranges  of  clear  down 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE  THE  GREAT.  51 

Defined  my  border  I  should  clamber  them, 

And  look  forth  coveting  the  golden  tracts 

O'  the  other  side.     Impenetrable  forest 

Must  block  me  from  the  view.    God's  hand  hath  set 

The  limit  of  my  empire  in  the  sea  ; — 

I  bear  His  finger-mark  across  the  sand, 

It  chafes  not ; — but  wherever  English  voices 

Gladden  the  breeze,  there  should  be  deep  accord 

In  custom,  purpose,  hope.     \Turniiig  to  the  dead.] 

I  have  a  people 
Will  none  of  the  invader ;  all  my  best 
Are  here.     How  simply  they  laid  down  their  lives  ! 
An  Englishman  sleeps  soundly  in  his  death. 
As  fearing  no  ill  vision.     Not  a  man 
Found  faithless  ;  this  is  Heaven's  great  reward.      [Exit.] 
[Re-enter    by    torchlight    Canute,    Edric,    Hardegon, 
Thororin,  and  Banes.] 

Edric.    Pooh,  pooh  !    You  say  'tis  no  clear  victory : 
Look  at  this  heap  of  Edmund's  subjects — all 
Of  note  about  the  court. 

Canute  [tooki?ig  wistfully  at  the  dead].      And  goodly 
faces  ! 
Here  is  a  churchman.     What  a  noble  brow. 
So  full  of  thought  and  sweetness  !     These  are  creatures 
To  stand  about  a  throne. 

Hardegon.     The  soil  breeds  English, 
And  Edmund  lives. 

Canute    [impetuoiisly].      This     day    shall     end    the 
war  ; 
Peace,  treaty,  or  division  of  the  land — 


52  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  II. 

Soldier  [behind].  Hark  ye  !  Edmund  gave  our  king 
a  drubbing;  the  place  hurts,  so  no  more  encounters. 
He's  meek  as  a  beaten  man ;  yet  we  sweated  all  day 
for  him. 

Canute  [striking  Jmi{\.     And  duly 
Receive  your  wage,  you  braggart, — a  king's  blow 
To  strike  you  into  silence. 

Hardegon.  Bravely  done  ! 

Thororin.  He  is  stone-dead.  This  deed  shall  be 
recounted. 

Down  sank  the  dastard, 
He  the  defamer ; 
Fierce  Canute  felled  him, 
Fearful  in  might. 
There  lies  he  lifeless, 
Lost  to  his  mother  ; 
Bloodless  on  battle-field, 
Branded  with  shame. 

Canute.     This  blinding  flicker  of  the  torch  !     Sweep 
down 
The  flame  across  his  face,  so  ! — He  is  stunned. 
God  !  but  his  look  has  hardened.    Thororin, 
Stoop,  find  the  breath. 

Tho?'orin.     It  will  not  come  again ; 
The  blow  was  fatal, — a  swift  punishment. 

Ca?iute  [mutteri7ig\  Punishment,  punishment!  and 
the  crime  faithful  speaking ;  it  is  the  false  tongue  wants 
stopping. 

[Edric  moires  away,  examining  the  corpses ?\ 

That  Edric — faugh  ! — I  hate  to  see  him  fingering 
the  dead.      Once   he   laid  his   impudent   hand   on  my 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  53 

shoulder.     I  have  no  pleasure  in  these  victories ;  they 

are  the  gift  of  his  treachery ;    I  have  not  won   them. 

All  the   great   English  are  here,  dead  and   loyal ;  and 

the  knave  spoke  true,  I  am  no  match  for  their  king. 

[Aside.]     You  talk  of  punishment.     By  English  law 

A  mulct  of  forty  talents  is  the  sum 

Due  from  a  man  who  murders  in  hot  blood ; 

But  from  a  king,  thrice  guilty,  triple  fine 

Shall  be  exacted.     I  will  make  amends ; 

We  are  no  more  barbarian.     Give  this  fellow 

An  honourable  burial ;  recount. 

My  Thororin,  the  sequel  of  my  passion. 

I  will  to  meditation.  [Exit.'] 

[As  Canute  retires,  a?t  E?iglish  messenger  is  seen  approach- 
ing his  tent.] 

Thoi'orin.     Write  the  end  ! 
Impossible  !     The  Viking  is  a  Christian, 
And  the  great  virtue  of  revenge  is  dead. 
I  sing  the  fiery  current  of  the  blood. 
Its  rapids,  its  revulsions.     Let  him  learn 
The  mournful  metres  of  tear-dropping  women, 
And  mourn  each  mighty  deed. 

Hardegon.     I  give  him  up. 
Great  men  can  get  the  virtue  out  of  good 
And  wickedness ;  they  know  that  right  and  wrong 
Work  well  together.     I  have  seen  old  Gorm 
Cry  like  a  baby,  but  no  whit  the  worse 
Next  day,  and  ready  for  a  massacre. 
This  lad  is  hopeless ;  he  will  come  to  terms. 


54  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

\Re-eiiter  Edric] 
Here  is  his  enemy,  a  man  to  crumble, 
And  eat  into  his  soul. — What  brings  you  here  ? 
You  seek  for  your  old  master  'mong  the  dead  ? 
You  will  not  find  him,  so  best  spare  your  pains. 

Edric.  Well,  it  would  have  saved  trouble ;  he  will 
scarcely  take  me  into  favour  again, — but  it  is  with  my  new 
master  I  must  parley.  I  am  the  hero  of  the  day.  He 
owes  everything  to  me  ;  and  I  and  my  Mercian  troops 
look  for  reward.  I  want  money  and  dignities.  Ah, 
there  is  the  royal  tent.  Just  tell  our  young  conqueror 
I  must  break  on  his  privacy.  \_Exit  Hardegon.]  The 
dogged,  old  creature  ! — but  I  sent  him  trudging  on  my 
errand.  Now  I  come  to  a  bit  of  work  I  shall  relish. 
This  high-bred  sea-king  thinks  he  can  use  me  con- 
temptuously. He  shall  be  my  dependent.  He  has  a 
notion  of  keeping  faith ;  and  the  oaths  he  shall  break ! 
Oh,  it  rejoices  me  to  dye  folks  my  own  colour,  and  to 
see  them  wince  at  the  discovery  of  their  vileness.  You 
can  do  it  easily  with  a  woman.  But  it  is  difficult  to 
menace  a  keen  man,  with  a  conscience,  and  intrepid.  I 
must  convince  him  he  owes  everything  to  me ;  and  a  just 
king  rewards  his  servants ;  ingratitude  is  the  part  of  a 
barbarian.  He  shall  set  me  in  the  rank  and  place  I  like 
to  name,  and  then  I  can  degrade  him  step  by  step.  I 
will  force  him  to  look  inwards  when  he  feels  contempt. 
That  is  how  I  dominate. 

{Re-enter  Hardegon.] 

Hardegon.    The  king  is  musing  ;  you  would  interrupt. 

Edric.  The  king  !  He  must  wait  for  that  title.  Then 
you  tell  him,  if  he  does  not  choose  to  converse  with  me — 


Sc.  I.]  .  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  55 

[Re~e?iter  Canute  wi/dly.'\ 

Canute.  Edric,  come  hither  ;  I  shall  need  your  service. 
King  Edmund  has  sent  to  propose  that  we  divide  the 
land.  I  could  win  it  back  for  myself  with  my  sword ; 
but  your  hireling  soldiers  damp  enterprise.  There  would 
be  no  more  honour  in  the  war ;  I  could  never  trust  my 
men  again,  after  they  had  been  in  the  company  of  your 
vile,  flattering  Mercians.  There  would  be  nothing  but 
ill-luck  and  treachery,  so  we  had  best  make  a  covenant, 
and  keep  that.  Within  a  week  we  meet  at  Olney.  I  do 
not  know  the  country.     Where  lies  the  fosse  ? 

Edric.  Ha,  ha  !  Again  at  fault !  I  must  fight  his 
battles,  then  prescribe  his  policy.  Wanted  at  every  turn. 
But  thanks  first,  and  wages.  Let  us  wipe  off  the  old 
score. 

Canute.  Stop  that  bluster,  you  recreant !  The  day 
would  have  been  ours  without  your  knavery.  Our  men 
had  begun  to  rally,  and  the  Raven  gave  the  sign. 

Edric.  Just  fancy  !  the  gods  were  favourable.  What 
a  pity  I  passed  into  your  ranks  with  weapons.  I  forgot 
what  a  young  one  you  are.  If  the  banner  floated  right, 
you  did  not  need  recruits.  Well,  Edmund  is  a  man ;  if 
I  had  kept  firm  to  him,  to-night  we  should  have  divided 
the  spoil.  And  the  Mercian  booty  too  your  pirates  were 
making  off  with — that  would  all  have  been  mine  ! 

Canute.  You  shall  be  well  rewarded.  But,  Edric,  I 
would  have  proved  myself  a  soldier.  I  did  not  conquer. 
The  field  is  mine  through  an  artifice. 

Edric.  The  result  pleases  you, — the  issue.  Scarcely 
anything  is  fit  to  look  at  in  the  process.     I  am  preparing 


56  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

for  your  glory ;  leave  me  a  little  to  myself.  As  for  the 
boundary-line,  we  will  not  hurt  our  brains  with  calcu- 
lations ;  they  are  all  artificial.  A  bit  of  blue  sea  is  the 
border  of  our  empire,  and,  if  I  recollect,  it  is  the  royal 
Danish  colour.  But  come  in,  come  in  !  I  must  look  to 
your  affairs.  If  I  had  not  wheeled  round  to  your 
ranks —  ^Moving  towa7'ds  the  royal  te7it?\ 

Canute.  There  lie  your  people.  Be  careful :  do  not 
trample  friends'  faces  on  your  way  to  my  tent.  These 
are  all  English  we  are  passing ;  you  should  know  every 
man  by  name. 

Edric.  As  I  was  saying,  if  I  had  not  given  you  my 
forces,  young  man,  I  should  have  been  saved  this  busi- 
ness of  halving  the  kingdom.  I  am  indispensable.  So 
no  retort.  \_Exeunt^ 

Scene  II.     Olney."^     An  island  in  the  Oiise. 

Enter   Canute,    Edric,    Hardegon,   Thororin,    and 
Danes. 
Canute.     Edmund  is  late  in  coming.     It  is  grey 
O'er  head,  and  sluggishly  the  river  swims. 
And  laps  up  its  own  sound  into  itself. 
As  cattle  are  contented  with  their  cud. 
The  noises  of  these  English  streams  are  low 
After  the  cry  of  torrents.     Thororin, 
Yon  willow-roots  grow  in  fat  peace  along. 
Not  like  the  striving  pines.     Edric,  I  own 


*  The  historical  meeting  took  place  at  OIney — an  island  in  the 
Severn. 


Sc.  II.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  57 

To  some  rejoicing  I  am  here  the  first ; 

It  gives  me  sense  of  full  possession.     Mind  you, 

I  do  not  think  this  treaty  will  endure ; 

Our  hosts  are  tired,  and  we  consent  to  slumber 

Till  one  of  us  awakes. 

Edric.     Or  not. — He  stares 
Across  the  river.     Did  he  take  the  hint  ? 
His  swift  glance  was  uncertain. 

Canute  [apart].     Now  they  shout ; 
The  boat  is  launched  :  it  is  a  hateful  moment. 
[To  Edric]     Why  do  you  slip  behind  me  ? 

Edi'ic.     But  to  show 
I  am  your  servant. 

Hardegon.     'Tis  to  hide  that  face. 

Canute.     He  is  not  yet   in   sight,  no  glimpse, — yon 
isle 
Of  waving  grass  so  blocks  the  view.     My  Danes 
In  rows  are  grimly  silent.     Thororin, 
You  love  the  headlong  rapids  of  the  North  : 
They  fall  too  sudden ;  one  could  never  build 
Beside  them,  never  stablish  governments 
In  their  rude  neighbourhood.     Edric,  he  comes  ; 
I  see  vast  shoulders  moving  through  the  rushes. 
Would  I  might  never  meet  him  ! 

Edric.     Why  ? 

Canute.     No  matter. 

Edric.     Something  has  caught  your  eye  among  the 
Danes. 
Vexed  ? 

Canute.     'Tis  that  woman  sitting  on  the  slope, 


58  CANUTE  THE   GREAT.  [Act  II. 

With  streaming  locks  and  wind-distended  raiment : 
One  fierce  hand  tugs  the  grass,  the  other  draws 
A  tress  of  hair  through  her  uncertain  mouth  ; 
Her  narrowed,  eager  eyes  are  fixed  on  me  ; 
They  call  her  Gunhild  ;  long  have  I  defied  her. 
Why  is  she  here  ? 

Edric.     To  see  the  spectacle ; 
All  women  love  to  gape  at  pageants.     Now 
Edmund  is  on  the  stream  ;  the  oars  are  splashing 
Among  the  weeds.     Heigh  !  He  has  got  my  child 
Against  his  side. 

Canute.     Noble  to  glance  at,  worn. 
Though  stronger  built  than  I !     He  cleft  my  shield  ; 
It  has  not  been  avenged.     A  placid  look  : 
Much  like  his  country's.     Ah,  the  hateful  thought, 
It  makes  me  feel  a  stranger,  though  I  call 
Half  England  mine.     He  smiles  at  that  fair  boy 
Dipping  his  palm, — an  honest,  brightening  pleasure 
Straight  from  the  eyes.     He  sees  me,  and  the  king 
Comes  forward  on  his  face.     I  must  prepare 
A  welcome. 

Edric  [aside,  glancing  at  Canute].     Ho,  his  pride  !  At 
handy-dandy 
He  cares  not  to  be  first.     My  Dane's  full  lip 
Is  sulky,  in  his  eyes  a  sullen  gleam. 
I  cannot  reach  his  mood.     Best  keep  behind. 

[Enter  Edmund,  the  child,  and  an  English  train."] 

Ednnmd    Hail,  brave  Canute.     That  you   have  met 
my  terms 
I  thank  your  generosity  ;  forget 


Sc.  II.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  59 

The  strife  between  us.     With  clear  boundaries, 

And  heavy  payment  to  your  fleet,  I  settle 

Beside  you  as  a  brother  in  this  isle. 

I  am  an  Englishman,  and,  once  at  peace, 

All  grudge  and  wrath  are  over.     There's  my  hand. 

Canute.     I  like  your  speech,  King  Edmund.    There  is 
mine. 
All  England  lying  southward  of  the  Thames, 
East  Anglia  and  Essex  are  your  realm  ; 
Mine  what  is  left. 

Edmimd.     A  mighty  stretch  of  kingdom  ! 
Such  the  agreement.     Now,  before  all  men, 
Clear-hearted  before  God,  I  swear  an  oath 
Of  friendship  and  of  brotherhood  to  one 
Whom  I  have  tried  in  battle  as  a  man, 
And  would,  as  king,  be  bound  to. 

Edric.     In  a  trice 
Canute  is  clearing,  and  a  sudden  touch 
Of  sun  lights  up  his  scowl. 

Cafiute.     I,  too,  will  swear 
With  a  good  heart  \  the  heavens  seal  a  vow 
That  I  will  live  your  brother.    [Aside.]  In  his  grasp 
There  is  such  amity. 

Edmund.     My  arms  and  mantle 
Take  as  a  pledge  that  I  am  wholly  yours 
In  purpose  and  affection. 

Canute.     Take  my  shield, 
My  sword,  my  robe,  great  Edmund. 

\They  exchange  clothes  and  weapons^ 

Edric.     It  is  time 


6o  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  [Act  II. 

I  gave  my  brat  a  kiss,  and  showed  myself 
With  insolent  composure.     Well,  young  pup  ! 

\The  child  recoils^  and  cli?igs  to  Edmund's  ha?id.'\ 

Canute.     Is   this   your  son?     [Aside.]     Who   shrinks 
away  from  him, 
As  culprit  from  the  touch  of  burning  shares. 
It  makes  me  hate  the  man. 

Edniund.     Ah,  Edric,  you  ! 
To-day  annuls  offences,  and  you  chose 
To  serve  the  better  master. 

Edric.     With  your  pardon, 
I  venture  to  declare  I  was  your  friend 
When  I  forsook  you ;  I  discerned  the  future 
Must  be  a  compromise,  and  how  to  hasten 
This  reconciling  hour. 

Edmund.     My  ears  are  shut. 
\To  Canute.]     Brother,  farewell.     May  we  so  grave  the 

vows 
Which  we  have  made  deep  in  our  memory. 
That  God  may  call  us  faithful  when  we  join 
Before  His  face  hereafter. 

Cajmte.     Let  me  take 
King  Edmund  to  his  boat. 

Edmund.     A  gracious  offer. 

Thororin.     Hateful  to  see  him  by  his  enemy, 
In  this  flat  place,  amid  rank  grass,  and  mud, 
And  sated,  yellow  lilies. 

Edniund  [to  the  child\     Come,  my  boy. 

Child.     Look,  uncle  Edmund,  at  the  bulrushes  ; 
How  huge  they  stand. 


Sc.  II.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  6i 

Edi?iund.     Here  is  a  goodly  spike ; 
I'll  cut  it  down,  and  arm  you  with  a  lance. 

Child.     My  father  gives  me  weapons ;  let  it  drop. 

Ed7nu7id.      Nay,  grasp  it  like  a  man !      This    noble 
king 
Will  think  our  little  English  boys  are  cravens, 
If  a  reed  makes  them  tremble. 

Canute.     Edric's  child  ! — 
Not  featured  like  his  father. 

Edimind.     In  each  trait 
His  mother's  gentle  self.  [  To  the  child.']  Now  jump  aboard. 
[To  Canute.]    Good-bye,  this  honour  pleases  me,  so  well 
I  love  my  valiant  compeer.     I  am  staunch, 
Canute,  when  I  may  trust. 

Canute.     Brother,  farewell. 

[^Exeunt  Edmund,  the  child,  a7id  English?^ 
A  king  in  sooth,  he  looks  imperial. 
And  royal  London  owns  him  as  her  lord. 

Edric  [^stealing  up  behind]  My  liege,  your  eye  movQS 
wistfully  across 
To  Edmund's  train  :  there  cannot  be  two  kings  ; 
There  shall  not. 

Canute.     Edric,  put  no  evil  thoughts 
Into  my  heart.     He  is  a  goodly  man, 
This  Edmund,  sworn  my  brother ;  in  his  robe 
I  stand. 

Edric.     Invested  in  his  majesty  ? 

Canute.     For  I  have  none  to  give  him  in  exchange. 
How  grew  he  thus  ?     His  father  was  a  fool. 

Edric.     His  step-dame  counts  him  as  her  enemy ; 


62  CANUTE   THE  GREAT  [Act  II. 

Your  crown  were  well  established,  she  at  home 
Once  more  in  her  old  place. 

Canute.     I  feel  the  time 
Is  come  to  knot  our  passion.     Seek  her  presence, 
Ask  her  by  all  she  loves  in  England,  all 
She  covets,  by  her  solitude,  her  beauty, 
Wreathless  and  disenthroned,  to  cross  the  sea, 
And  take  back  everything. 

Edric.     A  husband,  yes ; 
But  her  old  kingdom  also  ? 

Catiute.     Thororin, 
Carry  this  borrowed  cloak  ;  it  fits  me  ill. 

Edric.     It  hampers  you  ;  it  is  too  large. 

Canute.     His  arms, — 
Rid  me  of  all.     And  half  the  land  is  mine  : 
I  am  not  king  to  eastward  and  to  south. 
And  that  clear  ocean-marge  my  father's  right, 
And  heritage  by  conquest  shall  be  his  ? 
\_Facing  apart.']     How  if  I  whisper  murder  to  this  vile, 
Mean-hearted  alderman  ?     .     .     .     My  word,  my  oath  ! 
If  that  great  lady  would  come  back,  she  is 
So  fearful  an  enchantress,  might  I  take  her 
To  wife — then,  as  the  lucky  figure-head, 
That  speeds  the  sea-king  to  his  victory. 
She  would  ensure  me  monarch  absolute. 
I  noted  how  she  kept  her  smile  alit 
When  she  was  thwarted — and  her  ancient  hate 
For  Edmund  !     But  with  him  my  faith  is  sworn. 
\_Turni7tg.'\     Why  do  you  cast  your  leg  along  that  willow. 
As  if  to  ponder,  Edric  ? 


Sc.  II.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  63 

Edric.     I  would  sleep, 
And  dream  your  dreams. 

Canute.     AVhat  ? 

Ediic.     Nay,  your  face  knows  all. 

Cajiiite.     Where  is  that  woman  ? 

Thororm.     When  she  saw  you  leave 
Edmund  for  Edric's  company,  she  bounded, 
And  plucked  the  grass,  and  threw  it  on  the  stream, 
And  turned  home  full  of  smiles. 

Cafiute.     I  almost  think 
I  hate  this  river-bed.     Quick,  ferryman  ! 
We'll  pass  these  segs  and  flowering  rushes  by. 
And  reach  the  stable  pastures.     Edric,  come  ; 
Brown-study  wastes  your  time. 

Edric.     At  my  good  pleasure. 
Thanks,  thanks  ! 

Canute  [to  Thororin].     My  bard,  be  ready  with  your 
harp  j 
I  need  the  sound  of  seas  and  cataracts. 

[Exit,  with  his  followers^ 

Edric.  As  for  me,  I  will  just  look  about.  Providence 
will  direct  me.  I  am  lazy ;  I  must  have  leisure,  and  to 
plot  murders  is  a  real  toil  to  the  brain.  Yon  heron  drops 
by  instinct  his  long  neck  into  the  water,  when  the  fish  is 
under  his  bill.  Meanwhile  he  is  contemplative.  But 
the  Old  Lady  will  never  rest  till  she  has  King  Edmund's 
head  in  a  charger.  Though  it  be  fine  sport  to  inveigle 
him,  the  decoy-duck  is  not  yet  found.  There  is  no 
chance  of  my  luring  him  into  a  gin ;  and  his  kinsfolk 
and  acquaintance,  followers,  friends,  sister,  wife,  nephew^ 


64  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

all  dote  on  him.  I  have  it ! — nice,  tame,  and  such  an 
innocent.  Eh,  the  lad  can  draw  him  to  the  cage.  But 
slow,  slow,  my  sludge-river ;  we  need  time. 

Scene  III.     The  Danish  quarters  at  Northampton. 
E?iter  Canute  a?id  Emma.     A  crowd  of  Normans  and 
Da7ies  is  seen  retiring.      Emma  seats  herself  in  the 
royal  chair.     Canute  stands  abashed  befoi'e  her. 

Emma.     And  now  we  are  together. — O  my  king, 
Is  it  not  I  that  crowned  thee  ?     Streona, 
Whom  I,  in  all  things,  have  the  shaping  of, 
Hath  thrice  at  my  command  waylaid  the  life 
Of  Edmund,  thine  arch-enemy.     He  drew 
The  English  from  their  leader,  left  thee  lord, 
And  victor  of  the  field.     Did  I  not  first 
See  thee  in  London,  at  the  siege  ?     We  took 
Counsel  together,  you  and  I  apart ; 
That  day  we  settled  kingdoms.     Dear  my  lord, 
Now  tell  me  wherefore  thou  would'st  mate  with  me, 
Who  am  a  wife,  and  mother  of  young  kings, 
To  whom  the  crown  upon  this  brow  is  but 
A  jewel  repossessed,  who  must  enact 
The  past  in  all  things,  unto  whom  you  can 
Reveal  no  wonder,  give  no  morning  gift 
I  shall  not  smile  at  as  familiar  ?     Say, 
My  handsome  Dane,  my  sea-king,  O  my  love, 
Bright  as  the  prow-head  of  thy  fairest  fleets. 
Why  did  you  choose  me,  when  Duke  Richard's  girls, 
My  brother's  children,  stitch  their  broidery, 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE    THE  GREAT.  65 

And  sigh  for  lovers, — why  ?     Am  I  not  old, 

The  ancient  lady  of  these  realms,  and  thou 

A  rank  invader,  who  hast  exiled  me, 

Distressed  my  husband,  driven  out  my  bairns, 

Ravaged  my  lands  ?     There  should  be  enmity 

Between  us.     Wherefore  dost  thou  bring  me  here, 

Where  naturally,  from  long  habitude, 

I  take  the  throne,  as  grand-dame  by  the  fire 

Her  honoured  corner  in  the  ingle-nook  ? 

What  wilt  thou  with  me,  young  barbarian, 

Who  with  so  many  wiles  of  courtesy 

Hast  brought  me  over  seas  ?     The  rumour  is 

Thou  wilt  espouse  me, — if  for  policy, 

Thou'lt  rue  it ;  if,  Canute,  it  be  for  love.     .     .     . 

Why  would'st  thou  wed  me  ? 

Canute.     Lady,  I  have  lived 
A  ruthless  warrior,  but  love  the  things 
Of  peace  and  order.     I  have  slain,  and  burnt, 
And  mutilated,  and  have  loathed  myself, 
Yea,  loathed  the  savagery.     I  would  restore 
To  England  all  her  holy  usages, 
Her  laws,  her  Church,  the  treasures  of  her  shrines, 
And,  chief,  the  lady  who  has  gemmed  her  crown. 
Her  ever-honoured  Lady  Elfgifu. 

Efuma  [aside].    It  is  not  then  my  beauty. — Why,  there 
is, 
I  hear,  another  Elfgifu,  the  child 
Of  murdered  Aldhelm.     Thou  hast  sons  by  her. 
Oh,  tell  me,  are  they  like  thee  ?     Do  they  stamp 
In  spring's  eternity  thy  radiant  brows ; 

F 


66  CANUTE    THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

Is  there  young  kingship  in  them  ?     I  have  children 

So  like  their  father,  I  have  flung  them  off, 

For  they  recall  the  great  misgovernance 

Of  Ethelred  the  Redeless  past  the  term 

Of  my  maternal  patience.     I  am  true 

In  marriage,  fair  usurper.     My  two  lads 

Will  bear  the  characters  of  Cerdic's  line, 

If  they  inherit.     But  this  Elfgifu, 

The  lady  of  Northampton,  speak  of  her. 

Say,  will  you  cast  away  the  things  she  calls 

Your  sons,  and  trust  the  future  sole  to  me, 

Who,  for  your  sake,  relinquish  all  my  right 

In  well-begotten  Edward  and  the  young 

Alfred  his  brother  ?     What  of  Elfgifu  ? 

You  hesitate. 

Canute.     Her  name  shall  be  forgotten ; 
Her  boys  shall  rule  the  far,  barbarian  lands ; 
But  for  this  England,  that  I  love  as  mine, 
I  will  beget,  lady,  a  kingly  son. 
And  you  shall  be  his  mother. 

Emma  \sohbi7ig\.     Oh,  my  lord, 
I  would  I  could  unearth  the  buried  past, 
To  look  it  in  the  face  and  mock  at  it, 
Then  fling  it  out  as  refuse.     I,  for  you. 
Do  so  obliterate  my  loathed  days  ; 
They  are  dark  to  me,  imageless,  unknown, 
As  the  nine  months  before  I  saw  the  light, 
And  I  in  heart  a  virgin  come  to  you, 
A  queenly  virgin,  Gem  of  Noi'mandy — 
So  say  the  writers.     Dost  thou  find  it  so  ? 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  67 

Canute,  had  I  been  ta'en  thy  spoil  in  war, 

How  had'st  thou  served  me  ?   Had'st  thou  said.  She's  fah'^ 

But  worn,  TH  give  her  to  my  eldest  chief; 

And  turned  to  some  soft,  dimpled  child,  with  eyes 

That  stare  at  love  as  at  a  pageantry. 

That  awes  and  dulls  them  ;  or,  more  circumspect, 

Had'st  thou  espoused  me,  and  with  Elfgifu 

Spent  thy  unlawful  hours  ? 

Canute.     Had'st  thou  been  brought 
In  all  thy  dazzling  beauty  to  my  knees, 
I  had  not  given  thee  thy  liberty  ; 
I  had  commanded  thou  should'st  braid  thy  hair 
In  wifely  coronets  ;  and  thou  with  me 
Had'st  made  strong  covenant  thou  would'st  keep  faith 
Till  death  should  part  us. 

Emjna.     When  I  bear  a  boy — 
As  doubt  not  this  my  joy  in  thee  shall  take 
Its  form  in  flesh,  that  thou  may'st  see  how  deep 
It  enters  in  my  nature,  spite  my  years  ; — 
When  our  young  Dane  is  born,  thou  wilt  confer 
On  him  all  English  royalties  ? 

Canute  \throwing  himself  at  her  feet  and  daspiiig  her 
hand\    All,  all. 
Yet,  my  enchanting  queen,  see  that  he  show 
Some  traces  of  his  mother.     If  you  crave 
That  I  should  dote  on  him,  he  must  not  be 
A  simple  warrior,  but  of  courtly  grace, 
CompeUing  charm,  accomplished  in  all  arts. 
Loving  the  harp,  a  gentle-mannered  king. 
Lavish  to  learning. 


68  CANUTE   THE  GREAT  [Act  II. 

Emma.  Mother  to  a  monk  ! 
Is  child-bed  labour  for  the  tonsure  ?     Whew  ! 
My  Danish  son  shall  war,  burn,  ravage,  slay, 
Never  break  faith,  never  buy  off  with  gold 
His  country's  enemies,  despise  all  guile, 
And,  like  a  man,  sin,  harry,  and  pursue, 
Till  all  is  under  foot. 

Canute.     Then  must  you  give 
A  daughter  to  me,  that  these  clear,  keen  eyes 
A  second  time  subdue  a  conqueror. 
And  give  us  broad  dominion.     Noble  lady, 
How  bountiful  and  blessed  you  must  be. 
Thus  to  forget  my  many  injuries. 
And  give  me  promise  of  an  empire,  rich 
In  heirs ,  and  kingdoms, — rich  to  me  in  this  \passionately 

embracing  her\ 
My  Norman  gem,  Emma,  my  Elfgifu. 
My  stately  England.     Come,  thou  art  my  queen. 

Emma.     And  beautiful  ? 

Canute  \draiving  bac1z\.  You  must  not  sting  my  blood. 
Oh,  you  will  learn. — I  struggle  with  my  awe ; 
I  have  known  sack  and  pillage.     Should  I  take  you 
As  a  man  takes  the  woman  he  desires — 
I  cannot  speak.     Mine,  mine  ! 

E7tima.     You  are  afraid 
To  touch  me.     What,  you  tremble  ! 

Canute.     Emma,  think  ! 
I  hold  back  by  the  jaws  a  savageness 
Of  inbred  nature.     And  a  fear  of  shame, 
Of  uttering  dishonour  to  my  love. 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE   THE  GREAT  69 

My  worship  of  you,  makes  me  almost  stone, 

And  courteous  like  a  host     You  should  not  ask  me 

If  you  are  beautiful.     All  charms  of  earth. 

All  that  draws  waves  to  shore,  all  influence 

Of  stars  or  sun  are  in  your  face,  and  quiver 

In  me  as  I  behold  it. 

Emma.    You  should  woo 
Trusting  my  courage.     Speak  to  me  of  fear 
In  love — 

Canute.     The  taunt  is  perilous. 

Efftma.     As  well 
Face  a  great  warrior  with  dissuasive  words  : 
We  will  not  meet ;  we  are  not  matched  hi  skill. 
From  stripling's  mouth  such  words  are  vanity. 
They  show  the  arrant  craven. 

Canute.     For  your  sake 
I  wrestled  to  become  a  Christian  lover ; 
You  challenge  my  fierce  past ;  you  have  no  mercy. 
I'm  made  of  primal  stuff.     You  do  not  know. 

Emma.     My  heart  is  like  the  magnet,  unalarmed 
At  its  completest  triumph. 

Canute.     Cruel  queen. 
You  go  the  way  to  make  me  cold  with  terror. 
And  powerless  to  approach  you.     Give  your  voice 
Its  softest  resonance ;  'twill  win  me  back 
To  love,  to  warmth,  and  confidence.     O  Emma, 
It  was  your  sovereign  culture,  and  your  tones, 
Almost  religious  in  their  loveliness, 
That  bound  my  passion  to  you. 

Emma.     Ah,  forgive. 


70  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

I  glory  in  your  mettle,  in  the  flash 

Of  bright  desire  that  hurries  from  your  eyes. 

Canute,  I  have  been  mated  with  a  creature 

Who  took  my  favours  with  a  weary  face. 

Whose  hands  were  soft,  whose  lips  were  treacherous. 

It  injures  me  to  think  of  him  ;  he's  naught. 

In  you  I  greet  a  man — whose  sex  stands  up 

Within  him,  ruling  every  element ; 

'Tis  captain  of  his  body.     When  'tis  so. 

And  those  who  wed  us  bear  the  virile  stamp, 

What  can  we  do  but  worship  ? 

Canute.     Nay,  my  part 
Is  to  revere.     I  ponder  on  your  grace, 
Your  state  in  movement :  why,  your  very  smile 
Tames  like  a  lyre.     Great  lady,  shall  my  love 
Be  sacrilegious  ?  I  have  seen  them  burn 
The  lovely  missals  in  the  libraries, 
And  a  hot  flush  has  come  into  my  face ; 
'Twas  all  that  they  could  do  with  them,  but  there — 
The  pictures,  and  the  story,  the  bright  words 
Of  God — all  wasted  :  let  me  be  your  scholar, 
Instruct  me,  make  me  worshipful,  be  patient. 
And  you  will  fashion  me  a  king  so  great 
That  you  yourself  shall  tremble  at  my  fame  ; 
For  I  will  raise  an  empire  and  excel 
In  every  princely  art.     I  have  ambition. 
But  there  is  something  that  I  lack  that  sways 
The  conduct  of  the  world.     That  hour  we  met 
At  London,  how  I  loved  to  watch  your  face 
Wrinkling  in  state-craft,  and  in  policy 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  71 

So  subtle  'mid  the  blundering  warriors  ! 
I  could  not  let  the  beauty  simply  stir 
Desire,  that  may  redeem  the  negligence 
Of  my  untempered  youth,  raise  me  to  honour, 
Benignity,  and  wisdom. 

Emma.     But  the  toil ! 
One  must  not  dim  these  glittering,  blue  eyes 
With  the  thick-lettered  pages.     Woo  me,  woo  ! 
Be  amorous  ;  a  woman  best  imparts 
Her  knowledge  and  her  mysteries  to  one 
Adoringly  receptive.    Ah — the  Redeless 
Had  not  been  christened  so,  had  he  relied 
On  my  illuming  sense,  my  intellect, 
My  temper,  and  discretion.     All  are  yours. 
So  you  will  be  my  lover. 

Ca?iute.     Now  I  feel 
Strength  to  found  kingdoms. 

Emma  \_embrachig  him\    For  thou  art  a  king. 


Scene  IV.     A  dimly-lighted  room;  in  a  smaller  rooi?i^  the 
child  sleeping.     Enter  Edith. 

Edith.     They  bound  me  to  a  traitor  and  a  churl. 
And  yet  my  grandsire  had  eight  under-kings 
For  vassals.     He  will  weary  of  me  soon, 
And  I  at  Romsey,  or  some  royal  house. 
Shall  dwell  where  there  is  diligence  and  peace. 
How  beautiful  this  loneliness  !     It  seems, 
At  balmy  evening,  like  that  holy  time 


72  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  II. 

Spent  in  the  cloister,  with  this  difference — 
My  son  lies  in  my  sight ;  and  I  who  ever 
Have  loved  men's  souls,  and  prayed  for  their  redemp- 
tion,— 
But  coldly,  as  God  loved  the  world  before 
The  Bethlehem  Babe  lay  in  His  cradle, — now 
Faint  in  my  importunity  to  save. 
For  I  have  learnt  how  terrible  the  strength 
Of  evil,  and  how  great  infirmity 
Besets  soft,  striving  natures.     When  I  kneel 
And  offer  supplication  for  the  child, 
I  feel  him  press  and  vibrate  in  the  chords 
O'  my  inmost  being.     Ghostly  premonitions 
Enhance  my  restless  care  and  terror,  portents 
No  stretch  of  happy  days  could  quite  expunge : 
For  I  had  vision  of  him,  ere  his  birth, 
Lifting  a  gory  hand  half-full  of  flowers  ; 
It  seemed  while  he  lay  slumbering  on  my  knee. 
One  came  and  whispered  to  him,  and  he  laughed, 
And  did  not  know  me  any  more.     I  shudder 
When  his  remorseless  father  forces  him 
To  lash  his  favourite  hound,  or  blind  the  falcon 
He  cherished  from  the  nest.     A  messenger 
Says  Edric  comes  to-night ;  and  I  have  known 
The  child  turn  cold,  yea,  stammer,  and  tell  lies 
If  he  but  heard  his  footfall  on  the  stairs. 
There  is  one  way  to  save  him  ;  as  he  sleeps 
Gently  to  part  him  from  his  enemies  : 
I  have  so  often  tried,  but  he  will  lie 
With  soft,  wide  lips,  as  when  I  suckled  him, 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  73 

And  he  fell  dreaming  from  the  breast.     Alas  ! 
He  never  has  outgrown  his  infancy. 
How  I  must  pray  ! 

\E71ter  Edric,  unperceived.'] 
Edric.     She  looks  a  lady  born, 
And  I  am  proud  to  own  her ;  slender  hands, 
And  hair  down  to  the  knees  !     Her  eyes  are  fresh 
With  constant  tears, — a  dew  that  shall  not  dry, — 
And  the  thin,  curving  lips  are  beautiful, 
Though  worn  with  ceaseless  prayers.     My  pretty  saint ! 
I  love  her,  and  must  now,  in  jealousy. 
Purge  her  of  earthly  passion.     Will  she  yield 
To  the  proposal  I  shall  make  to-night  ? 
How  long  ago  she  would  have  lost  her  wits, 
Save  for  the  chapel  and  confessional ! 

\¥jV>yy:yi  perceives  hhn^  and  starts  back.'] 
Edith,  sit  down  by  me.     I  ride  at  dawn, 
And  need  some  hours  of  rest.     Watch  by  my  couch, 
And  waken  me  at  midnight,  when  I  start 
For  Edmund's  quarters ;  for  your  brother  sends 
A  chamberlain  to  beg  that  he  may  borrow 
Our  Alfgar — a  month's  play  and  bed-fellow ; 
And  the  request  is  opportune.     My  king 
Is  sick  of  semi-governance.     I  know 
An  easy  death  to  keep  the  murderer 
Clean  of  suspicion ; — a  few,  pregnant  words 
To  our  meek  offspring,  and,  without  offence, 
Canute  is  well-established  on  his  throne, 
And  heavily  my  debtor.     You  are  mute ; 
My  plan  commends  itself? 


74  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  [Act  II. 

Edith.     If  it  must  be, 
Why  did  you  tell  me  of  it  ? 

Edric.     To  bespeak 
Heaven's  blessing  on  the  scheme  and  execution. 
Give  me  a  kiss  ; — a  face  of  ivory 
To  match  yon  crucifix.     Now  get  within. 

\Motioning  to  the  child's  room.    Exit  Edith.] 
Unearthly  creature  !     She  will  win  forgiveness 
Of  my  vile  sin  before  it  is  committed ; 
While  Edmund  lies  at  peace  upon  his  bed, 
She  will  have  prayed  me  guiltless  of  his  murder. 
She  was  revolted  when  I  married  her 
By  my  dull  lewdness ;  in  our  wedded  hours. 
As  I  unfolded  to  her  my  atrocious 
And  unimagined  culpability. 
She  grew  the  guardian  angel  of  my  spirit ; 
And  now,  asleep  or  waking,  I  am  certain 
Of  pardon  for  my  most  appalling  crimes, 
And,  trusting  to  her  saintly  vigilance. 
Can  close  my  eyes  and  fall  asleep  without 
K pater-noster.  [Lies  down — closes  his  eyes.] 

\_jRe-enter  Edith,  with  a  dagger.] 

Edith.     I  will  not  suborn 
Any  poor,  guilty  wretch  to  do  the  deed. 
But  ope  for  him  myself  the  door  of  Hell, 
And  close  it  on  the  instant.     And  the  child — 
This  is  an  easy  deed,  and,  unforbidden, 
I  lift  my  arm  to  slay.     His  time  is  come  ! 
\_She  strikes  his  breast^  and  swoons.     He  rises  in  armour^ 
nnhurt.] 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE    THE  GREAT.  75 

Edric.     A  simple  scratch,  but  sly  and  treacherous  ; 
She  must  not  go  unpunished.     How  to  hurt  ? 
If  I  should  leave  her  thus,  she  will  wake  dazed, 
And  stutter  forth  my  deed.     By  heaven,  such  hate 
Comes  on  me  I  could  kill  her.^What,  revived  ! 
You  woke  me  roughly,  and  an  hour  too  soon. 
Now  we  can  talk  of  my  design. 

Edith.    Oh,  if 
Edmund  must  die — 

As  there  may  be  state  reasons,  do  it  thus — 
Let  him  not  suffer.  You  had  never  known. 
Take,  take  the  sword. 

Edric.     Here  is  my  instrument. 

\Turning  to  the  child^  who  watches  fi-ovi  his  bed?[ 
Awake  !  Ha,  ha,  awake  !  What,  sirrah,  staring  ? 
You  have  not  slept.     Get  ready  for  a  journey. 
You  watched,  I  know  it  by  your  face,  the  way 
Your  mother  raised  her  arm  to  murder  me. 
Get  up ;  I  want  you  to  do  that  again 
On  uncle  Edmund,  when  he  lies  asleep. 
I'll  teach  you. 

\The  child  trembles^  and  dresses  himself^  his  eyes  fixed  on 
his  mother.     'Edric  J)uts  a  dagger  in  his  bosom ?^ 

Edith.     There  are  voices — it  begins. 
God  !  God  !  the  dagger  gleams  from  out  his  vest, 
And  his  white,  witless  eyes  are  fixed  on  me  ; 
There  is  no  speech  upon  his  lips,  he  wanders 
As  the  fiend  to  and  fro.     Come  to  me,  Alfgar ; 
I  cannot  lift  myself.     My  boy,  be  brave. 
Put  that  away  \^poi?iting  to  the  dagger],  and  though  he 
torture  you.     ... 


76  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  II. 

0  God  !  I  cannot  speak,  it  grows  confused ; 

1  feel  the  fetters  on  my  brain  struck  off. 
No  matter,  you  can  play  about  the  same ; 
I  feel  so  happy. 

Edric.     He  shall  promise  me 
Entire  obedience.     If  he  disobey, 
He  knows  his  punishment :  I  blind  his  eyes, 
And  leave  him  shut  up  in  the  dark  for  ever. 
\The  child  utters  a  wild  scream.] 

Edith.     Ah,  ah  !  an  idiot  laugh.     How  pleasantly 
He'll  spend  the  days,  and  mutter  in  the  grass. 
'Tis  sweet  as  death,  this  madness.     Up  and  down 
r  the  sunshine,  and  to  laugh  the  whole  long  day. 

Child.     I  could  not  see  to  do  it ! 

Edith.     No  ;  he's  blind  ! 
Give  me  the  dagger.     I  am  free  at  last — 
Free,  free.     And  now  I'll  tell  you  something  strange ; 
I  never  shall  remember  any  more. 
Come,  we  are  play-fellows,  and  you  must  hide 
In  the  deep  water.     None  will  find  you  there, 
Down  in  the  irioat,  by  the  neglected  well — 
The  sedges  keep  a-rocking.     \She  seizes  the  child,  and 
sways  to  and  fro  with  him  in  her  arms.] 

Though  he's  drowsy, 
I  cannot  close  his  eyes ;  but  never  mind, 
We  are  quite  happy. 

[Edric  snatches  the  child,  and  strikes  Edith  down.] 

Child.     Father,  let  us  go  : 
I  cannot  bear  the  feel  of  her, — her  arms 
Are  snaky — take  me  where  it  must  be  done ; 
I  will  not  flinch 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  77 

Edric  [setting  the  child  before  him\     With  this  young 
innocent 
To  cloak  my  purpose,  I  will  set  aside 
The  royal  line,  and  push  up  to  the  throne. 
[Glancing  at  Edith.]     Will  it  not  gall  her?     I  foresaw 

this  raving. 
And  brought  a  nun  to  take  her  to  her  cell 
At  Malmesbury ;  after  my  sore  discipline, 
The  cordials  of  religion.     \To  the  child.']     Come  along. 

[Exit,  with  the  child.] 
[Edith  rises,  a?id  looks  carefully  rotmd  the  room.] 

Edith.     An  orphan  !     I  shall  find  him  hereabouts. 
They  said  I  must  go  searching  in  the  tombs ; 
But  there  are  madmen  in  the  rocks,  and  one 
Has  struck  me  on  the  brow.     A  pretty  boy. 
And  his  poor  mother  crying.     I  am  fearful 
That  she  has  lost  her  wits.     I  will  be  bold. 
And  face  the  peril. 

Prioress.     Lady,  come  with  me. 

Edith.     No,  no  !  that  is  the  way  to  Paradise ; 
I  will  not  be  your  dupe.     If  you  can  lead 
To  the  black  moat,  by  the  neglected  well, 
Down  in  the  rushes,  I  will  whisper  you 
■\Vhere  he  is  hidden.     Softly  step  along.  [Exeunt P\ 


78  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  III. 

ACT     III. 

Scene  I.     A  room  on  the  nortJwn  hanJz  of  the  Thames^ 
overlooking  the  Danish  fleet. 

Enter  Canute. 

Canute.     Sunset !     The  air  is  ominous.     I  muse 
On  Danish  majesty,  my  splendid  fleet, 
England's  great  city-river,  and  my  Ravens 
Flapping  across  ;  yet  by  King  Edmund's  favour 
I  winter  in  the  Thames. 

[E titer  Thororin.] 
O  Thororin, 
Be  near  me,  play  to  me  ;  I  am  beset 
By  terrible  temptations. 

Thororin.     English  priests 
Should  teach  you  their  religion ;  or  your  lady, 
Your  Christian  queen,  can  she  not  give  instruction, 
And-settle  you  in  conduct  ?     We  are  friends, 
Love  binds  us ;  she  is  satisfied  to  listen 
Hour  after  hour  to  the  triumphant  verse 
I  sang  when  you  were  pagan.     Look  at  her  ! 

[Emma  and  Edric  are  seen  landLng?\ 
She  gives  her  hand  to  Streona.     Confess 
Your  misery  to  that  fine,  goading  face, 
And  it  will  cure  despondency. 

[Thororin  withdraws  as  Emma  and  Edric  approach?^ 

Ca?mte.     He  hurts 
Deep,  deep, — for  he  has  visions,  and  should  know 
That  I  was  crying  out  in  mortal  pain 
For  divination,  insight,  such  as  poets 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  79 

Should  draw  from  open  gazing  on  the  world. 
'What  means  my  queen  ?  Although  her  lips  are  rigid, 
A  stormy  secret  plays  about  her  brows, 
And,  passing  Edric's  hand,  she  speeds  to  me, 
Urgent,  despotic. 

Emma.     King  of  England,  hail ! 
My  all-possessing,  worshipful,  young  lord. 
Ah,  ah,  a  regal  flush  !     Wilt  thou  to  London  ? 
It  is  an  air  I  love.     Come,  a  behaviour 
Less  frank  in  its  disclosures ;  feign  surprise  ! 

Camcte.     What  means  this  greeting  ?   Edmund  is  not 
dead? 

Em?!ia.     All,   all   his   lands   are   joined   this    day   to 
yours  ; 
I  give  you  half  a  kingdom,  for  you  took  me 
Without  a  dowry. 

Canute.     Did  he  die  by  nature  ? 
His  cheek.was  withered  when  I  saw  him  last ; 
Six  battles  had  he  fought,  and  swept  like  fire 
Now  here,  now  there,  calling  slow  country-folk 
To  gather  to  his  wars.     A  noble  ruler  ! 
\To  Edric]     He  died  at  peace, — with  housel? 

Edric.     AVhat  a  question  ! 
When  I  sit  down  to  feast,  I  know  a  sheep 
Has  bled  for  my  repast. 

Canute  [setzmg  Edric].  What,  you  have  slain 
Your  very  lord,  who  pardoned  you  your  vileness, 
Who  trusted  you  ? 

Edric.     Ay,  ay,  he  was  a  fool ; 
He  trusted  everybody,  even  you  ; 


So  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  III. 

He  treated  you  like  one  of  the  old  stock, 

Who  knew  the  strength  of  covenant. 

[Canute  relaxes  his  hold.']     We  settled 

At  Olney  I  should  do  this  bit  of  work  ; 

And  now  perform  your  part ;  the  Mercian  earldom, 

And  that  respect  you  pay  a  man  who  serves 

At  some  great  crisis  ! 

Camite.     Caitiff,  did  I  give  you 
A  word  or  a  command  that  day  I  swore  ? 

Edric.     The  solemn  oaths  were  all  for  Edmund's  ears  ; 
With  me  connivance  was  enough.     Come,  come, 
No  temper !     There  is  sunset  on  the  towers 
Of  London  ;  all  those  gilded  battlements 
Are  yours,  and  no  suspicion  :  in  a  fit 
Of  lunacy  my  lad,  while  bedfellow 
To  his  good  uncle,  stabbed  him  as  he  slept. 
The  childish  actor  had  been  ably  prompted, 
And  terror  made  him  perfect  at  the  art ; 
His  guilt  is  palpable.     He  roams  the  fields, 
A  jabbering  little  devil,  full  of  secrets 
To  make  Beelzebub  an  eaves-dropper. 
[Aside.]    I  waste  my  breath ;  a  change  is  on  his  features. 
I  know  this  quiet ;  it  arrests  the  sense, 
Like  the  appeasing  movement  of  a  storm. 
That  paralyses,  ere  it  devastate. 
Best  let  her  feel  its  fury.     [Ti^ms  to  Emma,  who  remains 

breathlessly  stari?ig  at  Canute.]     'Tis  a  sickness 
Needs  the  domestic  touch ;  I  take  my  leave. 
When  it  is  opportune  recall  my  service. 
Urge  my  desert. 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  8i 

Canute.     I  fear  to  deal  the  blow, 
And  make  a  lightning  end.     I  would  call  forth 
My  feasting  jarls — they  would  bespatter  him 
With  such  disgraces,  ridicule,  and  flaunts. 
That  he  would  die,  unstruck,  of  countless  gibes, 
And  feel  by  prophecy  his  corpse  would  serve 
For  next  day's  merriment.     S^Seizing  Edric  suddeJily?\ 

Thou  hast  offended 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  nature,  and  the  darkness 
Shall  never  cover  thee ;  for  thee  no  grave, 
But  infinite  exposure  in  the  sun  ; 
Corruption  blazon  thee  the  thing  thou  art, 
Abhorred  and  dissolute  ! 

[Canute  stra?igles  Ya)Vac^  flings  his  body  into  the  stream^ 
and  gazes  out?\ 

Emma.     To  look  at  it 
The  male's  fierce  nature  in  its  nakedness, 
With  passions  that  dumb  creatures  in  their  lairs 
Conceive  in  solitude  !     How  break  it  in  ? 
Wild  as  the  waters  that  engulfed  the  world, 
It  rages  in  its  hour  of  dominance, 
And  all  familiar  outlines  are  destroyed  ; 
There  is  no  sky,  no  comfort,  no  relief. 
No  streak  in  the  great  wilderness.     O  God, 
Thou  gavest  us  our  beauty  and  our  guile 
To  win  these  creatures.     I  will  try  a  touch, — 
'Tis  softer  than  the  voice,  more  powerful. 

Canute.     I  teem  with  memory.    Old  Gorm  would  glare 
Above  his  cup \^'hose  hand  is  this  ? 

Emma.     My  king, 

G 


82  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  III. 

You  are  a  murderer. 

Canute.     I  slew  him  not, 
The  great  lord  Edmund  ;  if  indeed  I  slew, 
I  loved  his  kingdom,  loved  his  people,  all 
The  other  side,  the  hills  beyond  the  stream  ; 
I  loved  him,  yea,  I  hugged  him  to  my  heart, 
I  felt  him  royal. 

Emma.     O  Canute,  you  murdered 
The  faithful  Edric. 

Canute.     God  !  what  I  have  done 
Is  bloody  round  my  brain ;  I  cannot  see. 
I'm  dazed  to  find  my  wife,  and  this  close  room 
Behind  me,  when  I  leave  the  boundless  wind, 
And  my  far  childhood. 

Ei?ima.     Spend  your  senseless  wrath 
On  me,  your  Emma,  who  exalted  you 
To  your  most  dear  ambition.     Yet  you  slew 
The  faithful  servant  who  fulfilled  the  deed, 

Canute.     Did  you  not  lay  a  hand  on  me  and  weep  ? 
Emma.    He  loved  you  truly — as  your  queen  doth  love, 
And  therefore  I  must  weep  him.     Did  you  fear 
Alfred,  my  eldest  born  of  Ethelred, 
I  would  myself  with  my  own  hands  destroy 
His  sight,  his  life,  whatever  you  should  crave ; 
For  all  that  derogates  from  your  estate 
Is  fitted  for  destruction. 

Canute  \_unheeding\.     Is  it  thus 
That  Hell  begins  ?  and  can  God  make  damnation 
With  just  a  little  shifting  of  the  days  ? 
When  me  the  live  hour  brings  its  transient  tale, 


Sc.   I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  83 

I  look  it  in  the  face  :  but  shall  the  past 
Ride  down  and  meet  me  on  the  open  plain  ? 
Can  nothing  grow  obscure, — the  mighty  figure, 
Erect  and  kindly, — the  reproachful  glance 
On  skulking  Edric  ?     Am  I  forced  to  feel 
Again  the  pressure  of  the  great,  warm  hands, 
And  mutter  words  of  feigning  amity  ? 
Nay,  crowd  the  English  people  on  the  bank. 
Unveil  the  hypocrite,  call  me  by  names 
Shall  strip  me  bare  of  majesty — a  coward, 
A  cunning,  sleek  barbarian.     Supreme 
Above  me  thou  shalt  sit  a  king  and  judge — 
Ah,  I  bethink  me  there  are  tears  and  prayers, 
And  drops  of  blood  fall  from  the  crucifix, 
Or  the  great  agony  would  overcome, 
And  I  should  fail  of  penitence  3  it  works 
Like  death  within  me. 

Emma.     Desolate,  abandoned ! 
Oh,  I  must  rally  him. — My  dearest  lord, 
Do  not  grow  pale  as  one  in  guiltiness. 
Never  till  now  have  I  beheld  you  blench. 
The  deed  was  my  conception  \  you  are  free. 
I  could  not  suffer  you  a  demi-king. 
Nor  make  you  present  of  a  demi-heir  ; 
Therefore  I  ordered  Edmund  should  be  slain ; 
1  gave  command  upon  our  marriage  day, 
And  Edric  nodded. 

Ca7iute  \unheeding\.     I  have  seen  a  fox 
Steal  round  a  yard  to  snatch  ;  a  prowling  dog 
Creep  for  a  bone.     Ah,  Edric,  you  and  I 


84  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  III, 

Are  mates,  the  fiends  will  couple  us  'm.  hell, 

To  hunt  down  the  unwary.     I  repent 

I  plunged  you  in  the  cold ; — my  flaming  cheek 

Must  bear  the  shame,  while  cool  oblivion  ^ 

Washes  you  o'er  and  o'er. 

Enwia.     He  sickens  me 
With  his  dull  raving. — My  exceeding  love 
Moved  me  to  hint  to  Edric  .     .     . 

Canute  \_leaping  to  the  wi?idow\     Has  he  sunk  ? 
The  moon  has  spread  a  sheet  upon  the  stream, 
And  hidden  all  that's  fatal.     Treachery — 
Ay,  here,  and  my  own  act. 

Emma.     He  is  intent 
On  self-reproach  and  bitterness. 

Canute.     The  stars 
Have  steadfast  faces,  and  prefix  our  doom  ; 
It  is  the  wandering  comets  lead  astray 
With  unsteered  courses.     What  is  permanent 
Is  god-like,  and  the  shifty  things  a  flaw 
And  a  discredit  to  the  universe. 
Heaven  hath  so  honoured  man  that  he  can  bring 
His  word  to  pass,  and  make  a  feeble  promise, 
A  breath,  and  an  endeavour,  more  assured 
Than  rise  or  set  of  sun.     That  majesty 
Being  disowned,  there  is  no  use  in  kings. 
No     purpose    to     accomplish.     \Tur7iing    to    Emma.] 

Edmund's  sons 
Shall  have  their  portion ;  I  can  make  amends. 
But  that's  not  large  enough  !  I  would  be  rid 
Of  degradation,  of  the  filching  nature, 
The  vileness  in  the  blood. 


Sc.  I.]  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  85 

Emma  [aside].     God  pardon  me  ! 
Until  I  hear  that  Edmund's  babes  are  slain, 

I  have  no  strength  for  travail. Oh,  I  faint. 

'Twas  thoughtless  '  fore  a  woman  in  my  state 
To  hack  and  murder.     You  are  terrible ; 
Your  wrath,  I  fear,  has  cost  your  land  an  heir. 
For  him,  for  you,  I  sinned.     Canute,  I  die  ; 
Pardon  and  pray  for  me. 

Canute.     She's  deadly  white. 

0  Lady,  have  I  hurt  you  ? 
Emma.     Ay,  to  death. 

A  mailed  voice  ! — I  am  used  to  minstrel's  tones ; 
And  the  reproach  cut.     I  shall  surely  die 
Barren  and  cursed,  but  on  my  failing  knees 

1  pray  you  nurse  these  children  as  your  own, 
Adopt  them  both,  and  for  your  unborn  babe 
Harbour  no  guilty  thought. 

Canute.     You  madden  me. 
Emma,  you  cannot  mean 

Emma.     Nay,  give  my  child 
A  third  of  your  possessions,  be  untrue 
To  your  great,  bridal  oath.     What  is  a  woman, 
A  mother,  that  your  word  to  her  should  bind. 
Though  sealed  with  bridegroom's  kisses.     At  my  knees 
You  swore  such  things — a  promise  that  the  fruit 
Of  our  embrace  should  own  as  heritage 
All  English  royalties.     Be  false,  dear  king. 
Add  broken  vows  to  deeds  of  faithlessness, 
And  take  advantage  of  my  sex ;  all  men 
Write  truth  to  wives  and  maidens  on  a  tablet 


86  CANUTE   THE   GREAT,  [Act  III. 

Of  running  water.     They  are  Edmund's  sons  ; 
And  you  repent. 

Canute.     My  lot  is  tied  to  yours, 
Fell  tigress,  temptress.     Would  you  have  your  den 
Bloody  with  slaughtered  babes  ? 

Emma.     I  cannot  bear 
The  sight  of  blood,  the  talk  of  butchery. 
These  children,  let  me  never  hear  their  names ; 
But  bring  me  word  they  are  not  in  the  land. 
We  have  removed  the  trouble  of  two  kings ; 
No  rival  princes  should  encumber  us ; 
For  if  you  hold  to  the  legitimate 
And  lawful  issue,  there  are  royal  lads, 
The  two  I  pushed  back  from  the  throne  to  set 
My  young  usurper  there.     I'd  rather  see 
The  boys  I  bore,  than  these  step-grandchildren, 
Mounting  my  dais-steps.     I  must  entreat 
You  keep  good  faith  with  me. 

Canute.     You  hold  me  bound 
To  that  wild  oath  ? 

Emma.     Your  lips  were  hot  and  ready  ; 
Your  hands  embraced  my  fingers.     Ah,  but  then 
I  had  not  stooped  from  my  great  widowhood. 
I  was  so  amorous,  I  forgot  my  lover 
Was  not  of  gentle  mould ;  like  kingly  Edmund, 
I  trusted  the  barbarian.     Ay,  strike  me  ! 
Your  viking  humour  is  not  void  of  charm. 
King  Ethelred  was  sorry  oftentimes, 
Exceeding  sorr}',  he  had  bribed  the  Danes  ; 
A  while  ago  you  brought  him  to  my  mind ; 
Do  not  be  sorry.     .     . 


Sc  I.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  87 

Canute.     Have  you  no  remorse  ? 

Emma.     That  you  are  England's  king  ?     Impossible  ! 
Go,  and  prevent  mischance.     Remove  these  babes, 
All  will  be  well. 

Canute.     They  never  shall  be  slain, 
But  harboured  safely  where  I  cannot  lay 
My  cruel  hands  about  them.     Over-sea, 
Olaf,  my  brother,  shall  be  foster  nurse  ; 
You  shall  not  look  on  them  [starting  up\     I  will  give 

orders 
They  presently  set  sail. 

Emma  [intercepting  hint].     King  Edmund's  widow 
May  trust  your  tenderness ;  I  bow  a  victim 
To  your  most  killing  hate.     How  opportune 
The  river  flows  beneath  !     I  cannot  live. 
Yet,  queenly,  choose  the  manner  of  my  death. 
Lift  me,  my  lord,  once  more  into  your  arms, 
Then  fling  me  from  you.     [He  pushes  her  a%va\\  and  she 
falls.] 

Canute.     God  !  no  more  temptation  ! 
Let  me  not  touch  you,  for  my  pulses  dance 
With  murderous  fever.     All  my  promises 
I  will  perform,  and  then  I  shall  breathe  free 
To  pour  on  you  the  measure  of  my  hate. 
To  punish,  to  divorce  you.  [Exit.] 

E?nma.     Gone  !  His  wrath 
Has  left  me  smitten — such  huge,  manly  rage  ; 
I'm  shaken  to  the  heart.     So  it  should  be. 
One  cannot  love  a  man  whose  hands  show  not 
As  clearly  they  were  made  to  deal  stout  blows, 


88  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  [Act  III. 

As  his  smooth  Kps  for  kisses'  tender  use. 

But  yet  my  child, — he  should  not  peril  him, — 

And,  oh,  the  hatred  in  his  quivering  breath 

As  he  forsook  me.     I  have  suffered  treatment 

Worthy  of  lamentation,  and  a  sea 

Heaves  at  my  bosom  ;  but  I  loose  no  vvxeping. 

Without  him  all  is  tearless,  desperate  ; 

I  have  a  headlong  wish  to  die.     Alas  ! 

We  cannot  look  each  other  in  the  face. 

When  there  is  jar  between  us ;  so  accursed 

Are  quarrels  of  true  love.     I  do  not  doubt 

But  my  inextricable  charm  will  keep 

This  boy  in  adoration.     I  will  rest  me 

Upon  our  marriage-bed,  on  the  dear  couch. 

Till  I  have  strength,  and  beauty  soothed  enough 

Simply  to  rise  and  draw  him  to  my  feet.  \Exit?^ 

Scene  II.     The  same  ;  later. 

Entei'  Canute. 

Ca7iute.     She  dared  not  wait  my  coming,   and  shall 
look 
No  more  upon  my  face. — A  vacancy, 
A  blank  !  that  scarf  left  trailing  on  the  floor, 
A  shred  too  of  her  robe, — I  must  have  trampled, 
Have  hurt  her,  as  I  thrust  her  off.     A  shred, 
A  tag,  and  is  it  thus  that  women  suffer  ? 
We  can  inflict  so  little  on  such  natures  ; 
We  cannot  make  reprisals.     Slavish  tears 
For  Edric,  and, — O  Hel ! — a  bloody  gleam 


Sc.  IL]  CANUTE    THE    GREAT.  89 

Across  her  eyes,  when  I  proclaimed  the  rights 

Of  Edmund's  children.     I  am  cut  adrift, 

Far,  far  from  the  great,  civilizing  God, — 

Dull,  speechless,  unappraised. 

\A  voice  singing.]     Is  that  a  child 

At  babble  with  his  vespers  ? — Silver  sweet ! 

It  minds  me  of  the  holy  brotherhood, 

Chanting  adown  the  banks.     As  yesterday 

I  see  all  clear,  how  as  they  moved  they  chanted, 

And  made  a  mute  procession  in  the  stream. 

[Gazi/ig  abstractedly  oil  the  water.] 

Merrily  sang  the  monks  of  Ely, 

As  Canute  the  king  passed  by. 

Row  to  the  shore,  knights,  said  the  king, 

And  let  us  hear  these  Churchmen  sing. 

Still  are  they  singing  ?     It  was  Candlemas, 

My  queen  sat  splendid  at  the  prow  and  listened 

With  heaving  breast.     'Twas  then  the  passion  seized  me 

To  emulate,  to  let  her  know  my  ear 

Had  common  pleasure  with  her,  and  I  trilled 

The  story  out.     The  look  she  turned  on  me  ! 

The  choir  shall  sing  this  music.     I  resolved 

In  the  glory  of  the  verse  to  civilize 

My  blood,  to  sweeten  it,  to  give  it  law, 

To  curb  my  wild  thoughts  with  the  rein  of  metre. 

Row  to  the  shore  !    So  pleasantly  it  ran, 

A  ripple  on  the  wave.     I  grew  ambitious 

To  be  a  scholar  like  King  Alfred,  gather 

Wise  men  about  me,  in  myself  possess 

A  treasure,  an  enchantment.     For  an  instant 


90  CANUTE    THE  GREAT.  [Act  III. 

I  looked  round  royally,  and  felt  a  king. 

The  abbey-chant,  the  stream,  the  meadow-land, 

The  willows  glimmering  in  the  sun  ; — a  poet 

Wins  things  to  come  so  close.     A  plash,  a  gurgle  ! 

There's  a  black  memory  for  the  river  now  \ 

And  hark  !  strange,  solemn,  Latin  words  that  toll. 

And  move  on  slowly  to  me.     .     .     .     Up  the  stair. — 

Without  the  door.     A  wail,  a  litany  ! 

\Entei'  Child  singing^ 

Child.     Miserere  mei^  Deus,  secu7tdiim  rnagnam  miseri- 
cordiam  tiiam  ; 

Et  secundum  miiltitudinem  iniseratiomwi  itiaruiiij  dele 
iniquitaiem  meam. 

Canute.     How  perfectly  he  sings  the  music  !     Child, 
Who  art  thou  with  that  voice,  those  dying  cheeks  ? 
Art  thou  an  angel  sent  to  wring  my  heart. 
Or  is  it  mortal  woe  ?     Thine  arms  are  full. 

Child.     Green,  country  herbs,  they  say,  will  staunch  a 
wound ; 
And  I  have  run  about  the  fields  and  gathered 
Those  I  could  catch  up  quickly  : — for  the  blood 
Was  leaping  all  the  while.     But  here  is  clary,     • 
The  blessed  thistle,  yarrow,  sicklewort, 
And  all-heal  red  as  gore.     I  knew  a  wood 
So  dark  and  cool,  I  crept  for  lily-leaves ; 
Then  it  grew  lonely,  and  I  lost  the  way. 
But,  oh,  you  must  not  beat  me ;  it  is  done. 
Father,  I  stabbed  him,  throw  away  the  whip  ! 
Now  God  will  scourge  me.     So  I  plucked  the  flowers. 
And  sang  for  mercy  in  the  holy  words 
Priest  Sampson  taught  me,  Miserere  I 


Sc.  II.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  91 

Canute.     This 
Is  Edric's  child,  the  little  murderer, 
Who  did  my  deed  of  treason.     Edmund,  turn 
Those  trustful  eyes  from  off  me. 

Child.     Take  me  back. 
He  will  be  dead    ...     He  fell,  O  father,  fell, 
And  when  I  put  my  cheek  against  his  side. 
Gave  a  great  pant.     Let's  pray  for  him  together. 
Can  you  sing  Miserere  ?     For  I  did  it. 
And  then  he  looked     .     .     .     Once  in  the  ivy-tod 
I  caught  an  owl,  and  hurt  its  wing.     'Twas  so 
He  looked.     Oh,  quickly  tell  me  where  he  Hes — 
Next  room  ?  or  down  the  passage  ?     Do  you  know 
He  was  my  uncle,  and  was  kissing  me, 
One,  two,  three,  on  my  head, 

Canute.     Cease  !     From  these  hps. 
White,  childish  penitents,  how  awful  sounds 
The  wild  avowal  of  their  treachery. 
Child,  it  was  I  who  struck  your  uncle's  side, 
Who  falsely  kissed  him  ;  it  was  I  who  set 
Your  father  on  this  wickedness  ■  'twas  I 
Who  drove  your  frantic  innocence  to  work 
The  sin  of  my  conception.     Can  you  learn 
That  I  alone  am  guilty,  and  God's  wrath 
Will  visit  me  with  judgment  ? 

Child.     Come  along. 
And  take  me  where  he  is.     How  can  I  go  ? 
I  do  not  know  the  path  or  time  of  day. 
The  leaves  are  fading.     Can  the  blood  flow  long 
Before  it  kills  ?     I  saw  it  spirt  and  jump ; 


92  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  III. 

I  could  not  see  it  now.     I  ran  and  ran     .     .     . 
Perchance  I  stayed  too  long  about  the  fields. 
'Tis  dark  ;  no  trees  and  hedges.     He  is  gone, 
And  I  am  damned  for  ever ;  the  fresh  herbs 
Could  once  have  saved  me. 

Cajiute.     He  is  chill  and  fainting ; 
Give  me  these  hands. 

Child.     I  am  not  much  afraid. 
Before  I  struck  at  him  my  skin  was  hot ; 
Now  dew  is  falling  on  me  ;  it  is  cool. 
Let  me  lie  in  your  arms  where  I  can  look 
Up  at  the  sky.     There's  some  one     .     .     .     and  he  grows 
So  kindly.     Oh,  he  smiles  down  all  the  w^ay. 
Quite  golden  in  my  eyes. 

Canute.     He  sees  the  moon. 
How  pale  and  cold  he's  growing  !     All  the  flowers 
Are  slipping  down.     I  cannot  bear  his  weight. 
'Tis  condemnation.     There  is  just  a  spot 
Here  on  his  garment,  one  bright  drop  of  blood, 
Sprinkling  his  spirit ;  he  is  saved  ;  on  him 
It  is  the  very  mark  of  Christ ;  on  me 
The  blot  that  makes  illegible  my  name 
I'  the  book  of  life. 

Child.     If  I  should  fall  asleep, 
It  will  not  matter,  for  I  could  not  see 
The  healing  plants  by  night ;  besides  my  eyes 
Will  open  wide  at  morning.     I  must  hold 
The  blessed  thistle  in  my  hand,  and  pray ; 
And  God  may  so  forgive  me.     Miserei-e  I 

Canute.     The  child  is  dying  on  my  breast.     He  closes 


SC.  III.]  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  93 

His  frightened  eyes  ;  the  notes  are  on  his  hps, 
His  arm  still  round  my  shoulder. 


•  Sharply  flows 

The  Thames  now  he  is  dead ;  the  rush,  the  hum, 
Are  like  a  conscience  haunting  me  without. 
I  cannot  bear  it.     I  will  fling  him  forth 
To  the  engulfing  river,  and  forget  him. 
Rank,  pagan  impulse  !     I  would  learn  the  prayer, 
Recall  the  gracious  song, — and  stormy  sagas 
Come  hurtling  through  my  brain.     I  am  a  stranger 
To  our  sweet  Saviour  Christ ;  I  cannot  pray  ; 
I  love  the  slaughter  of  my  enemies. 
And  to  exact  full  vengeance.     Little  one. 
Thou  shalt  have  fair,  white  sere-cloth,  and  a  circlet 
Of  purest  gold.     Now  that  I  look  on  thee, 
It  grows  soft  in  my  heart  as  when  they  chanted 
Across  the  stream. — Canute  the  king  passed  by, 
And  listened. — They  shall  sing  about  thy  grave. 

[^He  bows  himself  over  the  child  a  fid  weeps. '\ 

Scene    IH.      Malmesbury.       The    Orchard — moonlight. 
Edith  by  a  pool. 
Edith.     They  must  not  dress  me  like  a  penitent   .    .    . 
It  was  for  kindness.     White,  white  up  in  heaven, 
And  glist'ring  :  how  it  sails  about  the  sky  ; 
And  I  am  for  the  water.     I  will  do  't — 
They  put  it  on  me  as  a  dreadful  task 
To  pull  him  out.     Oh,  here  are  golden  flowers  ; 


94  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  III, 

I  will  step  softly  in     .     .     .     but  at  the  roots 

It's  black  and  treacherous — foul  iris-bed. 

Back,  back  1  I  cannot  bear  the  filth.     O  Edric, 

I  will  have  courage,  yea,  I  will  be  damned. 

Damned  for  your  sake.     When  it  grows  dark  again, 

I'll  fling  down  in  the  water.     For  a  little     .     .     . 

Oh,  I  will  come  to  you,  I  know  my  service — 

But  just  to  watch  the  silver  in  the  clouds, 

Where  there  is  muffled  music.     Gloria  ! 

It's  full  through  all  the  heavens,  and  the  child 

Sings  clearer  than  the  rest.     How  beautiful 

To  w^atch  him  from  so  very  far  away. 

I  loiter.     I  came  down  to  the  deep  pool 

To  get  damnation ;  they  shall  never  say 

That  I  deserted  him,  who  am  his  wife. 

How  he  has  drawn  me  to  him  from  the  hour 

He  humbled  me.     I  think  he  grows  more  strong 

Now  he  is  with  the  devils,  and  will  bring 

A  host  of  them  to  carry  me  away. 

No,  no  !  'Tis  I  myself  must  enter  it ; 

For  His  obedie?ice  that  shall  break  her  in, 

He  said,  /  will  not  force  her.     Now  'tis  dark, 

And  I  shall  stumble  on  the  choking  rushes, 

If  I  should  try  to  drown.     Who  walks  the  orchard, 

Weeping  so  bitterly  ? 

Elgiva.     O  England,  England, 
Dost  feel  it  at  thy  heart,  thou  hast  no  king  ? 
Ah  me,  and  no  avenger  ?     The  twin  boys 
I  bore,  that  should  have  rid  thee  of  thy  tyrant, 
Rock  on  the  chilly  sea :  such  little  ones. 


Sc.  III.]  CANUTE    THE   GREAT.  95 

Cast  forth  without  a  nurse.     O  pitiless  ! 
We  do  not  keep  a  fire  where  no  one  comes ; 
I'm  lonely,  and  the  ashes  in  my  blood 
Tell  of  such  desolation.     I  have  lost 
My  twain,  and  all  my  kindness — 

Edith.     Lady,  lady, 
'Tis  quiet ;  you  can  rock  a  child  to  sleep 
Down  there,  if  that's  your  meaning.     Come  along. 

Elgiva.     It  is  his  sister  Edith,  who  has  had 
Strange   woe ;    whose    little    son     .     .     .     O   God !   O 

Heaven  ! 
She  stands  there  from  whose  body  came  the  thing 
That  widowed  me.     So  tall  she  is  and  white — 
The  fountain  of  my  tears. 

Edith.     I  want  your  hand 
To  do  it  with.     I  held  an  iris-leaf — 
It  flashed  like  a  drowned  sword,  and  then  I  cried 
A  ghost  I     The  moonlight  laughed  so  merrily. 
But  I  will  say  the  Scripture  over :    Wives, 
Obey  your  husbands.     He  is  hidden  there. 
Under  the  cresses. 

Elgiva  [aside].     She  is  surely  mad. 
I'll  be  an  angry  keeper,  and  my  mood 
Gives  me  a  touch  of  cruelty. — Stand  still. 
How  dare  you  stir  ? 

Edith.     It  is  all  learnt  by  heart ; 
It  must  be  done  ;  he  watches  all  the  while. 
Though  out  of  sight. 

Elgiva.     Come  back  to  me.     Obey  ! 

Edith.     Ah,   now  you  know  the  word — obey  !     Yes, 
yes. 


96  CANUTE   THE   GREAT  [Act  III. 

I  will  do  all  you  tell  me. 

Elgiva.     Then  walk  back. 
[Aside]  O  God,  that  I  should  be  so  harsh  !     She  fixes 
Such  waiting  eyes  upon  me,  timorous, 
Yet  full  of  noble  candour,  Edmund's  eyes. 
That  could  not  learn  suspicion. — Come  away  ; 
Sit  on  the  bank.     She  does  it  like  a  child. 
A  child !     I  fill  with  tenderness  :  God  sends  her 
To  keep  my  heart  a  mother's.     How  it  throbs 
Against  her  nestling  forehead  ! 

Edith.     I  am  happy  ; 
You  said  I  must  not  drown.     Indeed  'twas  foul. 
And  I  am  fond  of  linen  newly  washed 
I  mean  in  shallow  water,  where  the  pebbles 
Are  clear  and  burnished    .    .    .    for — you  do  not  know— 
I  felt  that  I  was  making  me  a  harlot 
To  perish  with  him.     Say  it  over  to  me. 
Forbid  it  every  hour  and  every  day. 
Now,  and  each  moment !     Save  me  by  your  voice. 
Lest  the  reeds  have  me,  and  the  loathsomeness. 
The  violating  dregs. 

Elgiva.     You  shall  not  die  ; 
It  is  a  great  command  ;  and  mortal  sin 
It  were  to  disobey. 

Edith.     Is  that  the  word  ? 
I  feel  an  impulse  sucking  me  apart 
From  this  dear  side,  and  yonder — 

Elgiva.     I  am  strong ; 
You  shall  not  go.     Obey  me. 

Edith,     There  it  is  ! 


Sc.  III.  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  97 

Your  voice  is  living,  his  down  there  is  dead ; 
He  could  but  catch  me  with  the  water  plants  ; 
You  hold  me  in  your  lap,  and  twine  me  round 
So  firmly  in  your  arms.      Obey^  obey  ! 
Just  as  you  think  it  well  for  me.     I  know 
Why  they  have  dressed  me  as  a  penitent ; 
My  feet  are  muddy  ;  but  my  hair,  you  see, 
Is  golden  when  I  turn  it  to  the  moon. 
Quite  clear  and  shining.     Shall  I  tie  it  up 
The  old  way,  like  a  crown  ?     Faugh,  it  is  damp  ; 
I  thought  I  had  not  sinned. 

Elgiva.     It  is  the  dew 
Of  autumn-eve,  my  dearest.     You  shall  be 
My  care,  my  child,  my  blessing.     We  will  live 
Thus  hand-in-hand,  for  we  are  sisters,  both 
Beloved  of  Edmund.     It  was  in  this  orchard 
His  first  kiss  crowned  my  lips  below  the  trees ; 
Their  buds  were  red  :  the  apples  now  are  fallen. 
The  boughs  no  more  possess  them.     Do  I  cry  ? 
But  there  is  something  calm  as  Paradise 
I'  the  climate  of  this  weeping.     All  the  night 
Is  one  blue  home  of  stars,  and  I  am  certain 
Of  a  sweet  sudden  that  my  boys  are  safe 
In  the  far  country,  and  will  live  at  peace, 
And  grow  up  with  their  father's  spirit  near. 
I  think  it  is  this  crooning  at  my  breast 
Makes  me  so  blessed ;  like  the  wood-dove's  moan. 
Sorrow  and  comfort  are  both  reconciled 
In  this  low  music.     She  is  sleeping  half, 
And  half  complaining.     Noble  Edmund's  sister, 

H 


98  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  IV. 

And  England's  royal  princess  ! 

Edith.     I  have  never 
Known  all  this  joy  since  I  was  three  years  old. 
I  go  back  in  your  arms  through  many  days 
Till  I  can  find  that  I  lay  warm  like  this, 
Taking  no  thought,  my  blood  just  like  a  prayer 
They  chant  to  measured  harmonies. 

Elgiva.     She  enters 
The  life  of  heaven,  though  outside  its  door, 
And  a  mad  nun  at  Malmesbury  !     I  will  lead  her 
To  my  own  cell ;  for  the  bland  night  is  sending 
Its  sleep  to  earth,  and  visiting  her  brain 
To  heal  all  ache.     My  woman-child,  my  own.    \_Exeiint^ 

Scene  IV.     Glastonbury. 

Early  morning.  The  burial-ground ;  beyond^  the  churchy 
open,  disclosing  Edmund's  tojnb,  by  which  Canute 
stands. 

Enter  Archbishop  Ethelnoth  and  a  Monk. 

Monk.     Doth  the  king  still  keep  vigil  ? 

Ethelnoth.  I  have  watched  unseen  through  the  whole 
night.  Sometimes  he  would  be  restlessly  pacing ;  and 
anon,  he  would  hide  his  face — dash  his  rosary  to  earth. 
But  his  great,  fierce  hands  showed  the  wrestling.  In  the 
third  watch  a  change  came ;  his  prayers  were  all  said ; 
he  turned  from  the  tomb,  and  looked  up.  Then  he  fell 
a  musing,  long,  long.      It  was  just  when  the  day  trem- 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  99 

bled,  and  he  watched  all  the  changes  in  the  sky,  like 
a  child.  After  that  he  never  moved  till  the  bell  sounded 
for  matins. 

Monk.  Monuments  all  about  him,  and  he  had  no 
fear  of  the  dead  ? 

Ethebioih.  Not  the  least :  he  looked  often  at  the 
graves,  with  a  kingly  eye  too. 

Monk.     You  think  he  is  penitent  ? 

Ethehioth.  I  would  fain  have  questioned  him :  his 
face  was  so  full  of  responses.  But  there  was  a  privacy 
about  it,  kept  me  well  in  the  shadow. 

Monk.  This  is  curious.  If  he  should  have  a  great 
vision  to  recount !     Did  his  brows  shine  ? 

Ethehioth.  Well,  to  be  honest,  there  is  nothing  in 
Scripture  comparable  with  his  aspect.  The  bright  colour 
is  come  back  to  his  cheeks  ;  and  his  eyes  burn  again  like 
stars.     He  looked  sickly  so  long. 

Monk.  Yes ;  and  it  is  marvellous  a  night  in  the  chapel 
should  recover  him.  I  could  never  live  through  it. 
There  is  so  much  that  is  supernatural.  But  he  does  not 
know  how  the  corpses  bloom  about  him — fresh  as  re- 
surrection-morn ;  he  has  never  seen  a  saint's  coffin 
opened,  nor  breathed  the  fragrant,  spiced  air  from  the 
lips.     He  is  back  now  at  his  prayers. 

Ethelnoth.  And  the  sunlight  of  the  dawn  is  over  him. 
His  head  glows  like  an  altar  seized  by  God's  descent. 
I  must  see  now  that  he  rests  and  has  meat.  He  will 
suddenly  hunger,  and  then  no  patience.  It  is  the  swoop 
of  the  falcon  on  the  woodcock.     Get  within. 

\_Exit  Monk.] 


loo  CANUTE   THE  GREAT  [Act  IV. 

\To    Ca?mte.']      I   trust   you   have   found   peace   and 
absolution  ? 

Canute,    'Tis  for  King  Edmund  that  I  kept  the  watch  : 
I  said  the  prayers,  the  great  mulct  for  his  soul ; 
My  task  was  ended  long  since  in  the  dark. 

Ethebioth.     It  should  have  kept  you  lowly  on  your 
knees 
Till  dawn.     A  penance — have  you  learnt  them  all, 
The  varied,  slow,  humiliating  rites  ? 

Canute.     'Tis  little  that  I  know  except  the  creed, 
And  Pater-noster  that  Christ  sang  Himself, 
And  taught  to  His  disciples  :  seven  prayers 
There  are  in  that  Divine  one,  and  he  sends 
To  God  a  message  touching  every  want 
A  man  may  have,  who  sings  it  in  his  heart, 
As  I  above  this  tomb.     Oh,  I^have  deeply 
Foredone  myself;  but  mercy  hath  been  shown  me, 
And  I  for  ever  shall  hold  fast  in  thought 
All  this  night's  miracle. 

Ethelnoth.     Confide  the  vision. 
You  have  an  aspect  most  mysterious. 
As  God  had  forced  an  entrance  to  your  soul. 

Canute.  O  Ethelnoth,  I  have  given  up  the  keys  of  the 
city  to  Him.  There  is  no  warfare  longer  between  us. 
They  are  wonderful  Hands  to  fall  into,  and  a  wide  world 
that  is  opening.     I  must  be  a  pilgrim. 

Ethelnoth.  Then  you  saw  one  call  you  to  St.  Peter's 
dome;  or  St.  Joseph,  who  himself  took  the  young  Child 
to  a  new  country,  with  his  wanderer's  staff  pointed  your 
route  ? 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  loi 

Canute.     No  ;  'tis  the  need  of  travel, 
That  I  may  think.     God  is  a  law-giver, 
And  in  the  mysteries  of  nature  prints 
The  characters  of  rule.     All  things  with  Him 
Are  from  a  source,  and  of  necessity 
As  stern  as  that  which  makes  corruption  sequence 
To  the  slacked  bonds  of  life. 

Ethelnoth.     How  shall  you  journey  ? 

Canute.     Not  by  the  sea — that's  pagan  ;  by  slow  high- 
ways. 
Pausing  at  cities. 

Ethelnoth.     This  is  worldly  business, 
Of  which  your  soul  will  get  no  benefit. 

Canute  [pomting  to  the  altar].     Are  your  eyes  glutted 
with  the  treasure  there  ? 
My  breach  of  faith  has  opened  intercourse 
'Twixt  me  and  heaven  :  we  do  not  haggle  now 
On  the  first  point  at  issue.     Oh,  this  large. 
Wide  world  of  sorrow — 'tis  as  I  had  entered 
A  kingdom.     Let  us  out  into  the  light. 

\Tur7iing  to  the  burial-ground^ 
Such  very  early  morning,  autumn-time, 
A  rigour  in  the  air ;  from  the  dark  chapel 
How  sharp  the  contrast ! — golden  sycamores, 
The  dew  a  filmy  veil  across  the  grass. 
The  blue  mist  o'  the  orchard.     'Tis  the  moment 
When  nature  puts  on  immortality, 
Casting  her  mortal  weeds,  and  this  elation 
Springs  from  itself,  a  current  in  the  air 
That  hath  no  ripple. 


I02  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  IV. 

\Re-e7iter  Monk  :  a  procession  passes.^ 

From  the  Fount  of  God 

I  have  drunk  and  am  refreshed.     My  Edmund's  England 

Shall  be  no  fleeting  kingdom.     Ethelnoth — [Exeunt  info 

the  Churchy  conversing^  and fi7ially  joining  the  procession.'\ 

Monk.  Why,  he  looks  like  a  bridegroom  coming  out 
of  his  chamber.  I  will  at  once  set  this  down.  How 
he  towers  above  the  band  of  brethren  !  Heaven's  favour 
is  assuredly  upon  him — and  so  beautiful !  He  has  the 
roses  and  lilies  of  a  woman — not  like  brother  Thurstan, 
with  the  great,  red  patches  in  his  cheeks.  But  it's  in  the 
Scriptures — holiness  always  gets  into  the  skin.  My  com- 
plexion is  a  poor  witness  to  my  sanctity.  \_Exit  into  the 
Church?^ 

[Enter  Emma  into  the  bjirial-g?'ound.^ 

Emma.    Love,  love! — Fll  learn  it  in  the  burial-ground  ; 
Love,  love  ! — they  think  that  I  come  here  to  pray  ? 
Ay,  as  monks  pace  this  path  in  orisons 
To  be  beloved — of  God.     What  dost  thou  here, 

\E71ter  Thororin.] 
My  Thororin,  in  this  drear  water-land. 
This  isle  of  apple-orchards  ?     Thou  stand'st  mute. 
I  left  thy  noble  Viking  at  the  tomb 
Of  Edmund,  weeping ;  some  vicissitude 
Has  fallen  on  him ;  he  is  shrunk  and  shamed. 

Thororin.     And  changed  to  thee,  my  queen  ? 

Emma.     Oh,  Heaven  severs 
More  hearts  than  it  unites.     Thou  art  a  poet, 
And  hath  he  banished  thee  his  company  ? 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  103 

Thoi'orin.     We  two  have  stood  together  when  the  stars 
Shone  straight  down  in  the  sea,  and  I  have  sped 
The  ship  with  music  fleeter  than  the  wind. 
I  will  to  sea ;  there  I  shall  dream  of  him, 
Ah,  there  I  shall  recover — 

Emma.     Thororin, 
Thou  hast  my  queenly  heart.     I  can  disburthen 
Only  to  thee — a  priest  is  judge  of  sin  : 
Who  cares  for  sin  ?     Who  would  be  healed  of  that  ? 
The  hunger  and  the  thirst  about  the  heart 
The  poet  can  assuage  ;  he  knows  the  truth — 
That  love  is  the  religion,  and  the  body 
But  a  poor  pagan  till  it  learn  its  rites. 
We  were  so  happy  :  none  should  look  on  lovers  ; 
I'  the  world  'tis  outrage,  and  on  Heaven's  part 
It  spoils  the  privacy.     Two  souls  alone 
With  the  blind  sky  and  unrecording  earth 
To  witness  them — then  there  may  be  disclosures. 
Deep,  amorous  friendship  ;  but  with  God  to  watch — 
He's  made  all  ill  betwixt  us. 

Thororin.     I  have  lost 
The  poet's  joy,  for  in  my  Danish  lord 
All  Sagas  were  accomplished.     He  betrays 
Imagination,  and  the  trust  of  song ; 
He  has  befooled  my  dreams,  and  I  will  go. 
With  me  flies  Gunhild ;  when  she  heard  the  king 
Was  praying,  with  an  altered  countenance. 
She  tossed  her  arms  and  cried,  He  is  imdone,^ 
No  hope  for  Scandinavia^  but  his  child — 


I04  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  IV. 


And  a  beam  crossed  her  forehead. 

Emma.     She  would  bless 
My  babe  if  she  beheld  him  ;  he  is  featured 
Like  Gorm,  his  father's  lawless  grandfather 
And  stares  out  at  the  sea. 

Thororin.     Yea,  she  spake  true ; — 
Our  king  is  lost ;  last  night  I  saw  him  shudder 
Passing  my  harp,  and  my  resolve  is  taken. 
He  shall  not  look  upon  the  sacred  creature, 
That  never  speaks  save  to  proclaim  its  love. 
Withdraw  your  heart  as  I  the  instrument 
That  has  no  music  for  him. 

Emma.     Oh,  to  cease 
From  loving  is  impossible.     He's  changed, 
I  recognise  it,  but  the  man  in  him 
Endures  ;  the  tough  love  overlives  these  things  ; 
I  could  not  quite  forsake  him.     I  will  labour 
To  found  fair  abbeys,  and  enrich  the  Church, 
Then,  'tis  my  last  ambition,  he  will  build 
A  stately  tomb  for  me — a  marriage  bed  ; 
For  I  shall  lie  and  listen  to  his  voice. 
Awake  and  trembling  :  he  will  talk  of  sin. 
And  pray,  and  stumble  in  the  Latin  words. 
Till  I  shall  laugh  to  hear  him,  but  his  thought 
Will  be  of  a  gold-haired  and  royal  saint. 
Serene  at  God's  right  hand,  and  meet  for  worship. 
'Twill  please  me,  as  I  moulder  at  his  knee. 
To  know  he  has  that  picture,  and  that  Emma 
Draws  him  o'  nights  to  the  moonlighted  choir. 
You  sing  love  overlives  death  :  sing  it  loud 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  105 

In  Norway  !     I  will  act  it  j  I  will  feign. 

TJiororin.     Nay,   be  yourself,  show  you  despise  this 
doting, 
Show  how  ignoble  is  a  reign  of  peace. 
This  sleepy  air  is  not  for  warriors  ; 
Rouse  him  to  conquest ;  let  him  see  your  scorn. 

Emma.     And  alienate  him  so.     Have  you  not  learnt. 
My  poet,  love  is  the  great,  feigning  art ; 
Itself  the  desperate,  deep  reality 
That  puts  on  all  disguises  ?     Feign  to  love, 
All  living  creatures  crowd  to  jeer  at  you, 
Dead  in  dissimulation  :  be  a  lover. 
And  all  that  your  beloved  covets  most 
You  will  become.     Did  my  lord  set  his  heart 
On  gem,  or  missal,  I  would  gratify 
His  whim,  and  now  saints  are  his  admiration — 

Thororin.     O  noble-featured  queen,  you  cannot  grow 
One  of  these  petty  women,  with  blank  faces  ; 
Your  brow  gleams  as  the  flashing,  northern  sky. 
And  you  wall  cease  to  charm  him  when  you  wear 
A  stagnant,  dull  sobriety. 

\Re-enter  Canute,  Ethelnoth,  and  procession  from  the 
church.     King  and  Archbishop  walk  apart. '\ 

Emma.     He  comes ; 
Is  he  not  beautiful,  a  very  hero  ? 
To  Norway  !    Spread  his  glory  in  the  North  ! 
When  the  great  battle-lust  possesses  him 
He  will  be  perfect  pagan.     Oh,  I  love  thee, 
For  thou  hast  sunof  of  that  in  all  the  world 


io6  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  IV. 

Most  worthy  of  eternal  chronicle, 
And  endless  iteration. 

Thororin.     Come  away ! 
Let  us  not  look  on  him.     The  bells  and  chanting 
Have  thrust  the  homely  sagas  from  his  mind. 

Emma.     O  harp,  that  keeps  him  famous  through  the 
world, 

0  Thororin,  my  poet,  on  thy  brows 

1  set  my  lips.     Couple  my'name  with  his ; 
Sing  of  our  kingly  bairn. — Forget  the  rest — 
Sing  of  his  glory,  sing  the  conqueror. 

Thororin  [scowling  at  Canute].     A  tattling  penitent ! 
Oh,  I  will  tell 
Great  lies  to  make  men  tremble  at  thy  name, 
And  thou  shalt  burn  and  harry  like  the  rest. 
The  son  of  Swend,  but  fiercer  in  destruction. 
I  will  keep  faith  with  thee  ;  my  harp  shall  never 
Know  thy  dishonour. 

Emma.     Seven  battlefields 
Thou  hast  to  sing,  and  Edmund's  overthrow. 
Farewell !    [Exit  Thororin  ;  she  watches  Canute.]     He 

doth  not  even  look  on  me. 
There  is  a  seeking  passion  in  his  face. 
He's  thinking  how  he  best  can  serve  his  God. 
Some  faces  never  alter. 

[Ethelnoth  advances  to  her.] 
Ethdnoth.     Noble  lady. 
What  do  you  in  the  early  morning  air  ? 

Emma  \aside\.     He  thinks  I  am  so  wrinkled  and  so 
stricken 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  107 

That  I  disfigure  the  young  day  ?     My  beauty 
Shall  dazzle  and  humiliate  the  monk, 
And  then — \gla7ices  at  Canute] 

'Tis  said  you  lived  here  as  a  boy. 
Archbishop,  you  have  often  paced  this  path 
Among  the  abbey  dead, — I  came  here  humbly 
To  look  for  sepulture  ;  my  waning  years 
Incline  me  earthward,  as  those  stooping  trees 
Bend  their  decaying  branches  to  the  ground. 

Ethehioth.    Daughter,  these  precincts  are  not  yet  for  you ; 
There's  summer  on  your  features,  and  your  hair 
Is  radiant  as  Queen  Guinevere's,  whose  bones 
Moulder  beneath  you. 

Eiiwia  [shiidderi?ig\.     Have  I  found  the  grave 
Of  Guinevere  ? 

Ethebwth.     Yes,  lady,  it  was  opened 
Six  years  ago — the  bloom  still  on  her  face, 
But  dusty. 

Emma  \kneeling\.     Will  you  let  me  lie  beside 
This  lovely  queen  ?     Oh,  deeper  in  the  earth  ! 

\Flijigs  herself  on  the  ground?^ 
I  am  an  ageing  woman  : — meet  I  die. 
And  give  him  my  wild  soul  to  wanton  with. 

[Canute /^i'j'(?i'  near  her.] 
God,  he  is  cruel,  with  sharp  instruments 
He's  cutting  at  my  heart.     Ah,  blessed  father. 
Did  we  twain  walk  together,  we  would  found 
Such  stately  houses,  for  I  love  the  Church  ; 
Yet  oh  ! — it  is  my  mortal  sin — my  husband 
Is  foremost  in  my  heart. 


io8  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  [Act  IV. 


Ethelnoth.     This  reverie 
Hath  been  too  much  prolonged,  he  doth  not  notice 
His  noble  queen  ;  she  is  a  royal  creature, 
Doubtless  of  great  munificence.     I'll  bring 
This  pair  together. 

Emjna.     All  my  revenues, 
If  you  can  make  him  penitent  of  this, 
His  infamous  neglect. 

[Ethelnoth  walks  apart  ivith  Canute.] 
In  very  truth. 
My  heart  will  burst  its  banks  from  this  contraction 
And  pressure  of  my  rage.     I  do  not  feign  ; 
The  fury  in  me  doth  transgress  the  limits 
Of  life's  determined  channels.  \_Exit  Ethelnoth.] 

Canute  [approaching].     Desolate ! 
My  lady,  with  her  bright  hair  in  the  grass 
Untressed.     Ah  !  you  mistake  ;  it  was  not  here 
They  laid  the  king  we  murdered. 

Evuna.     Here  is  buried 
Our  Arthur,  faultless  monarch  of  the  West, 
And  Guinevere,  his  beauteous,  wicked  queen. 
Oh,  give  me  leave  my  lord,  to  lie  with  her. 
Canute.     You  say  that  she  was  wicked. 
Evuna.     So  am  I. 
She  had  a  heart  too  passionate,  and  beauty 
That  bore  no  bloom  save  in  the  clime  of  love. 
We  shall  speak  low  together ;  she  will  prate 
Of  Lancelot,  but  I  shall  say  my  /msba?td 
Was  my  sole  lover,  and  became  a  pilgrim  : 
I  lay  a  shrouded  figure  on  the  bed, 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  109 

When  he  returned. 

Canute.     Emma,  my  precious  queen, 
You  make  me  stark  with  horror  :  for  my  soul 
I  go  to  Rome  ;  for  I  have  wrought  a  deed 
So  black,  so  diabolical,  I  shudder 
For  hell  by  day  and  night.     The  time  will  come 
When  it  will  be  far  better  for  us,  far. 
Than  all  on  middle  earth,  that  we  had  ever 
Performed  God's  will,  and  very  earnestly 
Loved  Him  with  inward  heart. 

Emma.     You  grow  religious. 
The  ties  of  earth  unloose.     Make  no  farewell, 
Do  not  come  near  me  living  ;  but  this  favour 
I  ask  of  you,  when  you  return  from  Rome, 
Visit  my  grave.     You  will  have  learnt  how  lowly 
The  courtesy  to  death. 

Canute.     O  Emma,  Emma, 
My  greatest,  dearest,  it  was  in  your  heart 
To  put  away  my  rival. 

Enwia.     You  can  pray. 
It  is  the  chief  use  of  your  lips.     I'll  die  ! 

{Stooping  over  Guinevere's  grave?^ 
I  would  be  buried  with  my  kind  ;  your  place 
Will  be  by  flawless  Arthur. 

Camite.     Do  you  jeer  ? 
Then  I  will  fling  you  off  from  bed  and  board. 

Emma.     Clip  my  long  hair,  and  dress  me  as  a  nun  ? 
I  prithee  give  me  into  custody 
O'  the  archbishop.     To  the  barred  cell ! 
For  he  is  gentle  ;  he  will  bring  my  boy 


no  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  [Act  IV. 

To  play  bo-peep  at  kissing. 

Canute.     You  will  make  him 
A  murderer,  a  traitor. 

Emvia.     Like  his  father  ! 

Canute.       Since    penitents    are    dumb    beneath    the 
scourge, 
I  do  not  chide  you.     [Aside.]     There  is  strength  in  me 
To  judge  her,  and  condemn.     A  fatal  creature  ! 
Can  you  repent  ? 

Emma.     Of  noble  Edmund's  death  ? 
Most  bitterly — for  England  has  no  king, 

[Canute  turns  away.] 
And  he  had  royal  gifts.     Oh,  I  am  mad 
Thus  from  the  grass  to  hiss  at  him.     He  goes  ; 
Then  all  is  disannulled  between  our  lives, — 
I  am  a  lonely  corpse.     Help,  help  !     Come  back  ! 

Canute.     What   would  the  queen   with   an   unkingly 
man, 
Whose  crown  she  shares  ? 

Emma.     A  lie,  a  hateful  lie. 
The  wet  mould  at  my  breast  is  chill,  and  bitter 
The  memories  that  come  up  through  the  turf 
Of  that  lost  woman. 

Canute.     Emma,  do  you  find 
Your  mate  in  her  ? 

Emma.     Yea,  since  she  sinned  for  love. 
There  is  no  wickedness  I  would  not  work, 
No  crimes  so  monstrous  that  it  would  not  seem 
Part  of  my  wifely  duty,  no  deception 
I  would  not  practise  for  your  dear  advance. 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  in 

I  pray  you  mark,  my  king,  that  I  confess 
My  guilt.     [Aside.]     I  am  not  feigning,  so  my  nature 
Yearns  for  his  deeper  love. — My  noble  Dane, 
\Re-e7iter  ExHELNOTH/ef^r/^/Z/y.] 
Your  glory  I  have  dimmed  ;  as  I  deserve, 
Put  me  away  from  you. 

Ethelnoth  [distractedly].     This  must  not  be, 
What  God  has  joined ■ 

Canute.     Sever  you  not,  you  fool, 
With  priestly  intervention.     She  is  mine  ! 

[Raising  ajid  clasping  Emma.     Exit  Ethelnoth.' 
Mine,  mine, — the  dearer  for  her  wickedness, 
The  more  to  be  desired  !     Be  not  afraid, 
I  have  learnt  this,  sin  is  a  mighty  bond 
'Twixt  God  and  man.     Love  that  hath  ne'er  forgiven 
Is  virgin  and  untender  ;  spousal  passion 
Becomes  acquainted  with  life's  vilest  things, 
Transmutes  them,  and  exalts.     Oh,  wonderful, 
This  touch  of  pardon, — all  the  shame  cast  out ; 
The  heart  a-ripple  with  the  gaiety. 
The  leaping  consciousness  that  Heaven  knows  all, 
And  yet  esteems  us  royal.     Think  of  it — 
The  joy,  the  hope  ! 

Emvia.     The  joy  !     To  see  your  face 
Turned  to  my  brow,  that's  joy  ;  and  if  your  soul 
Could  even  thus  incline  to  my  poor  spirit. 
All  would  be  firm  between  us.     I  am  old. 
And  fixed  in  disposition,  hard  to  move. 
Not  changed  in  one  rare  day.     Oh,  you  are  young ; 
Have  patience,  give  me  slowly  of  your  hopes. 


112  CANUTE   THE  GREAT.  Act  IV. 

Your  happiness.     I  thought  I  had  no  king, — 
All  royalty  was  gone.     But  you  are  great 
Beyond  our  nuptial  night,  beyond  the  day 
That  saw  us  crowned  together. 

Canute.     Starry  tears. 
Such  as  the  northern  seas  dashed  in  the  face 
Of  your  young  Viking. 

Einina.     O  Canute,  these  words 
Give  me  a  home  again  upon  your  breast. 
Not  wholly  changed  ! 

Caiiute.     For  thou  art  mine.     Thus  linked, 
We  will  serve  England  ;  law  and  peacefulness 
Shall,  of  our  effort,  dwell  within  her  shores. 
My  brother  could  no  more. 

Einnia.     This  altar-cloth 
Hid  in  my  robe — I  had  it  in  my  thought 
To  lay  it  secretly  on  Edmund's  shrine. 
Will  you  present  it  ? 

Canute.     O  my  Elfgifu, 
Say  that  you  wrought  it  carefully  with  tears. 

Emma.     No ;  God  forbid  the  foul  hypocrisy  ! 
These  blue  and  shining  peacocks  that  I  sewed 
Were  for  pure  love,  and  every  lady-stitch 
Entwisted  for  your  sake. 

Canute.     A  frank  confession. 
[Aside.]    The  glorious,  golden  heart ! — Then  we  together 
Will  lay  it  on  our  kingly  brother's  tomb. 
Emma,  the  holy  places  I  have  wrecked 
Make  ruin  in  my  dreams. 

Emma.     With  all  my  relics 


Sc.  IV.]  CANUTE   THE   GREAT.  ii 

You  shall  give  reparation  :  we  will  found 
Great  houses.     [Aside.]     Now  his  eyes  are  shed  on  me 
Full  as  the  morning  sun. — And  for  our  England 
We  will  take  common  thought. 

Ca7iute.     Her  sons  shall  serve 
One  God  and  worship  Him,  one  Christendom 
For  ever  hold,  and  with  right  truthfulness, 
Even  as  thou,  shall  love  Canute  their  lord. 
And  I  have  vowed,  in  that  I  basely  slew 
Their  hero-king,  that  all  my  altered  years 
Shall  be  a  great  atonement,  and  accomplish 
The  best  of  his  conception.     We  are  led 
By  baffling  roads  to  wisdom,  but  a  light 
Creeps  ever  after  as  we  step  along ; 
I  turned  back  in  my  sin,  and  then  I  saw 
The  dogging  lustre.     Let  us  take  our  gift. 
Your  work,  my  queen,  to  Edmund's  sepulchre. 
This  is  to  be  a  pilgrim  : — the  new  life 
Is  full  of  blessing.     Come  !     {Exeunt  into  the  Church.] 


THE   CUP   OF   WATER. 


**  Earth's  young  significance  is  all  to  learn." 

Robert  Browninz- 


PREFACE. 


The  story  dramatised  in  these  pages  is  taken  from  one 
of  "the  projects  or  arguments  of  poems"  given  in  the 
recent,  complete  edition  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti's 
works. 

Among  these  "  arguments  "  there  is  indeed  one  bearing 
so  unmistakably  the  stamp  of  the  poet's  genius  that  to 
handle  it  would  be  profane.  The  fragment  of  Michael 
Scofs  IVootng  enfolds  the  germ  of  a  ballad  that  must  have 
surpassed  even  J^ose  Mary  in  strength  of  spiritual  im- 
agination. The  Cup  of  Water  is  a  simpler  theme,  un- 
touched by  the  peculiar  magic  of  the  author's  style, — a 
ballad  in  outline,  yet  full  of  suggestion  of  the  "  inner 
whispers  "  and  struggles  of  the  heart.  I  have  taken  it 
reluctantly  from  the  dead  hands  of  the  poet  whom,  as 
artist,  I  so  profoundly  revere,  not,  let  me  once  for  all 
assure  my  readers,  with  the  thought  of  continuing  work 
he  has  begun,  but  rather  of  modifying  for  dramatic 
purposes  material  he  has  left  unused. 

June  I,  1887. 


117 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 

Almund,  a  young  King. 

Hubert,  Almund's  Friend. 

Reuben,  an  old  Gardener. 

Cara,  a  woodland  Girl. 

MiLLiCENT,  a  Princess,  betrothed  to  Almund. 

Scene.     A    Wood — twice    removed    to  the   Garden  of 
Millicent's  Castle. 


ACT    I. 

Scene  I.     The  Wood. 

Enter  Almund  and  Hubert. 

Almund.     The  woods  are  leafless,  but  the  hazel-twigs 
Are  sprouting ;  if  one  hangs  one's  head  aside, 
'Tis  green  against  the  sky.     Our  callow  spring 
Is  chilly,  wild,  and  petulant  so  often 
I  am  not  much  surprised  to  feel  this  ice 
Among  the  pushing  buds. 

Hubert.     Surprised — not  you  ! 
The  even  tenour  of  your  disposition 
Will  never  own  a  marvel ;  while  for  me 
There's  novelty  in  every  change  of  day  ; 
Faces  distract  my  humour,  and  the  tunes 
A  minstrel  strikes  up  one  upon  another 
Ring  through  my  blood  and  take  away  my  breath 
With  simple  fascination. 

Almund.     Yes,  dear  lad  ; 
It  is  your  gaiety  and  bubbling  youth 
That  keep  our  bond  so  fresh. 

Hubert.     Oh,  I  am  sure 
There  is  no  sweeter  fervour  in  the  world 
Than  that  of  early  friendship,  when  it  flows 
From  childhood's  fount,  and  two  unhindered  spirits 
Shake  the  same  gusty  tempests  from  their  brows, 

119 


I20  THE   CUP  OF   WATER.  [Act  I. 

Welcome  the  same  soft  sun,  and  face  together 
Each  day's  new,  yet  famihar,  circumstance. 
With  women  it  is  different ;  they  keep 
So  far  apart,  and  do  not  care  to  hsten 
Unless  one  speak  of  love. 

Almund.     They  choose  a  theme, 
The  sole  to  which  God  deigns  to  lend  an  ear. 
The  racking  terror  one  is  not  beloved 
Once  laid  to  rest,  the  deeper  aim  of  speech 
Attains  its  goal,  and  one  may  give  one's  tongue 
To  gaiety,  as  yonder  babbling  brook. 
Babbling  of  nothing.     Ah,  we  reach  its  source 
Beside  this  wretched  hut ;  the  moss  is  trodden 
Around,  the  starry  spurges  of  the  spring-time 
Grow  gold  about  it,  and  the  withered  leaves 
Crackle  above  the  runlet.     Yonder  stoops 
A  maiden  with  her  cup, — and  I  am  thirsty, 
Although  I  did  not  know  it. 

\Enier  Cara  at  a  distance?^ 

Hubert.     What  a  frigid 
And  lonely  look  the  little  figure  has  ! 

Almund.     A  starving  daisy  ! — Girl,  you  have  a  cup, 
And  I  am  thirsty.     Will  you  give  me  drink  ? 

Hubert.     Ay,  catch  this  bankside  dribble  for  us,  lass. 

Cara  [to  Almund].     Yes,  sir.    [Going  to  t/ie/ozmtain.] 

Almund.     Oh,  Hubert,  watch  how  she  is  bending. 
As  if  her  ear  were  open  to  some  secret 
Among  the  mouldered  ferns. 

Hubert.     She's  lovely,  lovely, 
Provokingly  demure. 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF    WATER.  121 

Almund.     The  cup  is  full. 

Hubert  \to  Cara].     Serve  me  the  first,  and  I  will  hand 
it  on. 
Why  do  you  pause  and  tremble  ? 

Cara.     He  shall  have  it.     \_P ashing  past  Hubert.] 
No,  no  !     He  asked  me. 

Almund.     Gently,  child  !     I'll  kiss 
The  edge,  and  then  my  friend  shall  have  his  draught. 

Cara.     But  you  shall  drink.     It  is  for  you. 

Almund.     What,  first. 
When  a  dear  comrade  asks  ?     Wliere  were  my  manners, 
My  charity  ? 

Cara.     He  tried  to  snatch  the  cup  ; 
He  has  not  drunk,  I  pulled  it  from  his  lips. 
You  said  that  you  were  thirsty,  and  for  you 
I  caught  the  rill.     Drink,  drink  ! 

Hubert.     How  laughable  ! 

Abnund.     My  friend  before  me  !     Take  the  cup  to 
him. — 
[Aside.]  ^\^at  passion  in  the  hazel  eyes  !     O  God, 
I  am  betrothed ;  I  know  it  like  a  curse 
That  has  begun  to  work.     She  turns  away 
With  piteous  submission  ;  as  a  blast 
I  bend  her  spirit. 

Hubert  [to  Cara,  taking  the  ciip\.     Bravely  oftered  now, 
You  pretty  scold  !     Why,  Almund,  there  are  tears 
Splashed  on  her  cheek — a  tempest  in  a  second. 

Almund  [aside].     To  comfort  her,  enfold  her  to  my 
heart. 
And  keep  her  ! 


122  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  [Act  I. 

Hiibe7't.     Jove  !  I  ever  was  esteemed 
A  scoffer  at  the  ladies  :  this  bright  wildness 
Of  sudden  crying  washes  off  my  guilt, 
And  I  am  all  for  love. — Up  with  your  apron, 
And  dry  your  eyes  ;  we  only  want  the  water 
You  gathered  from  the  bank.     Where  do  you  live  ? 

Cara.     Close  by. 

Hubert.     Within  that  hovel  ? 

Cara.     Yes. 

Hubert.     How  shortly 
You  answer,  such  a  nipping  tongue  you  have  !     \Passing 
the  cup  to  Almund.] 

Almund.     You  do  not  live  alone  ? 

Cara.     Sir,  with  my  father, 
But  quite  alone.     By  day  he  fells  the  trees  ; 
A  great  way  off  I  sometimes  hear  his  axe. 
When  I  am  sitting  lonely  ;  and  at  night 
He  sleeps  within  his  cabin. 
\_Coming  up  to  Almund.]     Drink  again  ! 

Almund  [drzjiking].    All  that  is  left ;  yet  all  was  meant 
for  me. 

Ca?-a.     Give  me  the  cup.     I'll  hold  it  to  the  stone. 
And  bring  it  running  over. 

Hubert.     What  a  bound  ! 
As  freakish  as  a  February  lamb's. 

Cara.     Full,  full  as  ever. 

Almund.     I  will  drain  it,  child.] 
No  passing  on, — you  see,  the  very  cupful 
You  meant  for  me  at  first,  at  last  I  drink, 
No  jot  abated. 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  123 

Hubert.     You  are  talking  now 
Above  her  head. 

Almund.     Her  soft  look  understands. 

Hubert.     I  love  that  gentleman,  I  am  his  friend  ; 
Will  you  not  turn,  and  give  me  but  a  smile  ? 
There's  a  gay,  little  woman.     Now  a  kiss  !     \_SnatcIiifig 

one.] 
How  swift  a  change  !     Her  childhood  is  all  gone ; 
Adorably  a  girl,  she  shrinks  and  flushes 
The  wild-wood  red  of  yonder  whortle-blooms. 
xAh,  I  have  kindled  love  with  just  a  touch. 
And  stung  the  bud  with  light.     Oh,  joy  !  Oh,  love  ! 

Ahnund.     Come,  let  us  go.     I  will  no  longer  wait ; 
The  wind  is  keen  among  these  boughs.     Good-bye. 

Hubert.     Farewell,  delicious  hermit. 

\To  Almund.]     That  is  cruel  ! 
Note  her  sly  modesty — she  waves  to  you. 
And  only  you.     It  is  a  lovely  method 
That  virgins  have  of  hiding  what  they  hope 
To  turn  the  other  way  in  all  they  do. 
[Almund,  unperceived  by  Hubert,  throws  a  kiss  to  Car  a.] 
And,  hark,  that  is  her  little  trill,  a  spirt 
Of  song,  the  early  bird.  \Exit  Cara.] 

Ahnund.     She's  immature. 
And  like  the  very  month  of  March, — as  tart, 
Impetuous,  provoking.     It  is  sweet 
When  Spring  is  thought  about,  and  is  not  here. 

Hubert.     Almund,  I  love  her,  love  her  !     You  were 
moved ; 
I  saw  her  charm  strike  inward.     Do  not  wince ; 


124  THE  CUP   OF   WATER,  [Act  I. 

If  you  are  plighted,  you  are  yet  too  young 
To  have  no  idle  fancies.     She  is  worthy 
My  love,  although  she  is  a  cottager  ? 

Ahtufid,     That's  nothing;  burn  up  all  such  circum- 
stance 
If  you  would  love  indeed.     To  ashes  with  it ! 

Hubert     How  vehement  your  tone  ! 

Almufid  \_abstractedly\.     To  be  beloved 
Even  from  the  very  fountain  of  the  heart, 
To  touch  the  well-head  of  a  maiden-passion. 
The  bright  spring  from  the  rock ;  in  the  cool  draught 
To  feel  the  virgin,  solitary  years, 
And  win  access  to  the  deep  flow  and  current 
Of  the  dark  water-bed  among  the  hills  ; — 
It  is  a  miracle  one  fears  to  greet, 
A  sign  that  does  not  modify  events, 
But  re-adjusts  the  soul. 

Hubert.     You  brood  on  love 
Too  solemnly  \  it  is  a  simple  joy. 

Almund.     I  talk  at  random.     How  these  catkins  dust 
One's  velvet !     You  are  happy  ? 

Hubert.     Oh,  I  feel 
That  all  my  merriment  of  disposition 
Was  but  a  childish  matter  \  the  man's  rapture 
Steadies  me  and  ennobles.     Yet  I  swear 
She  much  preferred  you  till  I  took  that  kiss, 
And  all  my  fervour  crept  into  her  face. 
I  must  not  tease  my  wayward  anchorite. 
Or  she  will  run  to  you  ;  that  brow  of  yours 
Seems  to  extend  protection. 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  125 

Ahnund  [aside].     She  is  mine. 
The  water  came  not  straighter  from  the  earth, 
Than  she  herself  to  me. 

Hiibert.     You  are  unmindful ; 
I  vainly  prate  to  one  in  reverie, — 
Indifferent  to  my  fortune. 

Almu7id.     May  you  win  her  ! 
You  are  my  friend. 

Hubert.     I  doubt  not  she  will  listen  ; 
The  small,  cold  cheek  grew  ruddy.     We  shall  wed, 
When  you  espouse  your  Millicent. 

Almund  [astde].     Thus  God 
Severs,  without  the  clemency  of  death.     [Exeunf.] 

SCENE  II.     T/ie  Wood.     Next  day. 

Enter  Hubert. 

Hubert.     How  my  heart  throbs,  and  how  philosophers 
Would  laugh  to  see  me  hurry  to  this  inlet 
Of  winding  turf  amid  the  rusted  leaves ; 
For  love,  they  say,  is  like  the  pretty  dint 
In  the  green  pasture  that,  with  use,  becomes 
A  beaten,  dusty  road  !     Oh,  not  with  her  ! — 
She  has  such  moods  to  follow ;  she  is  changeful 
As  this  tempestuous  morning.     What  a  wreck 
Of  spring's  bright  sheddings  on  the  ground  amid 
The  pine's  red  autumn-refuse  !     Broken  Hfe  ! 
I  will  not  moralize  \  I'll  call  her  name. 
What  syllables  will  bring  her  ?     She's  a  darling, 
Miniature's  self,  the  point  of  space,  yet  all 


126  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  [Act  I. 

I  can  conceive,  all  that  my  heart  requires. 
Is  there  no  means  to  bring  her  ?  Hark  !  Be  quiet, 
All  treble  voices  of  the  meagre  season  ; 
Here's  a  wild  catch  a-singing.     Oh,  the  glee  ! 
Car  a  [singing  afar]. 

Where  winds  abound, 

And  fields  are  hilly, 

Shy  daffodilly 
Looks  down  on  the  ground. 

Rose-cones  of  larch 

Are  just  beginning  ; 

Tho'  oaks  are  spinning 
No  oak -leaves  in  March. 

Spring's  at  the  core, 

The  boughs  are  sappy. 

Good  to  be  happy 
So  long,  long  before  ! 

\Runni7ig  to  himP[     Where  is  your  friend  ? 

Hubert.     To-day  I  come  alone. 
You  must  not  fancy,  little  maid,  that  I 
Am  but  another's  shadow.     Let  me  keep 
These  restless  fingers  \tries  to  kiss  her].     Ah,  it  comes 

again. 
Your  colour  of  the  bilberry's  flowering  tufts. 
My  kiss  is  not  forgotten?     'Twas  to  warm 
Your  icy  cheek  my  lips  grew  pitiful ; 
But  when  they  rested  there,  and  chased  the  frost, 
They  longed  to  lead  up  summer  to  your  face 
By  kissing,  ever  kissing.     Do  not  look 
So  harshly  coy.     O  little,  woodland  girl, 
I'm  making  love. 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  127 

Cara.     I  love,  I  love.     I  made  it 
As  droplets  from  the  great  earth  filled  my  cup ; 
I  made  it  yesterday.     I  love,  I  love  ! 

Hubert.     How  shrill  the  passion  of  this  tiny  throat ! 
You  loved  me  at  first  sight ;  so  I  loved  you, 
And  shall.     .     .     Oh,  now  I  know  there  \s>for  ever 
To  make  room  for  such  loving. 

Cara.     Do  you  think 
That  he  can  love  like  that  ? 

Hubert.     You  mean  the  king  ? 

Cara.     No,  not  the  king.     My  lover  is  a  man 
Who  tells  me  he  is  thirsty ;  I  have  never 
Seen  anything  so  noble  in  my  life. 
He  bade  me  give  you  drink.     He  is  not  proud. 
He  did  not  make  me  humble  in  my  heart, — 
I  leapt  within. 

Hubert.     Hush,  hush  !  I  shall  be  angry. 
How  dare  you  speak  of  loving  him?     It  is 
A  fearful  treason.     What,  a  tiny  subject, — 
The  least,  sure,  that  he  governs, — to  presume. 
As  if  she  were  a  princess,  to  call  lover 
Her    sovereign    lord !      There,   there !      You    did    not 

know 
It  was  a  king  who  showed  you  courtesy. 
Now  you  will  understand.     You  see  those  fences, — 
The  flowers  that  grow  inside  you  never  touch. 

Cara.     Oh,  yes;    I  climb  the  paling  for  the  clumps 
Of  juniper,  and  for  the  jay's  blue  plume, 
That  glitters  so  with  the  black  bars  across  : 
I  never  heed  what's  written  to  forbid ; 


128  THE  CUP  OF   WATER,  [Act  I. 

It  is  all  made  for  me  on  either  side 
The  bit  of  mossy  fencing  :  that  I  know. 

Hube7't.     Well,  you  may  snatch  the  flowers ;  but  there 
are  things 
Quite  out  of  reach,  that  it  is  wickedness 
Even  to  want.     You  must  be  dutiful, 
And  glad  to  fill  your  pitcher  for  the  king, 
When  he  rides  down  the  forest ;  but  to  dream 
That  you  could  marry  him  !     His  mate  is  chosen 
In  Millicent,  a  noble  lady,  honoured 
By  all  the  people.     Do  not  grow  so  black 
Across  this  forehead, — such  a  withered  sadness, 
Such  bleak  despair  ! 

Cara.     Why,  you  have  nearly  killed 
All  in  my  bosom. 

Hubert.     Sit  upon  these  logs. 
Against  my  arm,  and  let  me  tell  you,  child, 
As  you  have  loved  in  silly  ignorance 
One  who  could  never  give  the  least  return. 
Who  dare  not,  and  who  would  not ;  I  have  loved 
Less  madly,  but  with  passion  like  to  yours, 
You,  only  you. 

Cara,     I  hate  her. 

Hubert.     God  above  ! 
You  startled  me  with  that  short  virulence, 
Those  grinding  teeth.     Be  silent,  wicked  lass. 

Cara.     Cara  would  slay  her. 

Hubert,     Oh,  is  that  your  name  ? 
How  -lovely  and  enticing ;  why,  the  winds 
Are  heart-tied  to  the  sound.     Cara,  be  gentle. 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  129 

Put  by  this  dreary  wrath,  and  let  me  kiss 

The  loathsome  curses  from  your  lips.     Come,  come, 

Ripple  the  mouth  to  beauty,  let  these  eyes 

Take  on  their  vanished  glances. 

Cara.     He  is  mine ; 
A  thief  has  hold  of  him,  my  own,  my  own, 
My  king,  my  love,  my  love  ! 

Hubert.     He  never  was. 
Never  will  be  your  love.     This  is  the  nonsense 
That  women,  who  know  nothing  of  the  world. 
Prate  to  their  narrow  souls.     The  king  would  laugh 
To  hear  you  chirp  such  folly. 

Cara  \_springing  from  Hubert,  and  standing  apart\ 
It's  more  wicked 
Than  anything  that's  done.     I  know  what  hurts. 
I  plucked  once  a  big  bough  of  apple-bloom  ; 
I  wanted  it  to  hold  down  in  my  frock. 
And  smell  \  they  said  it  was  too  good  for  me, 
I  should  have  let  the  apple-tree  alone 
To  be  of  use  in  autumn.     All  my  pleasure 
Was  robbed, — they  tried  to  snatch  the  bough  away ; 
I  ran  and  buried  it,  for  I  was  glad 
It  should  be  wet  and  grimy  in  the  soil. 
It  is  so  dreadful  to  make  anything 
That  springs  up  in  the  heart  seem  black  and  wicked ; 
And  it  is  such  a  lie  !     The  king  would  laugh  ? 
He  had  a  still,  grave  face  ;  I  am  quite  sure 
That  he  would  never  laugh  at  anything 
So  terrible  and  sudden.     Why,  the  oak 
Has  a  white,  bony  bough  amid  the  leaves ; 


ISO  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  [Act  I. 

That's  where  the  Hghtning  struck.     I  do  not  laugh, 
I  think  what  it  must  suffer  'oeath  the  green, 
So  scathed  and  ugly. 

Hubert,     Cara,  do  not  put 
Such  hatred  in  your  eyes  ;  if  the  great  lady 
Who  loves  the  king — 

Cara.     Great  ladies  cannot  love. 
You  must  be  poor  and  famished  to  be  hungry ; 
No  crust  at  home,  and  all  the  whortles  picked 
Before  you  reach  the  common — then  the  tears 
Come  choking.     It's  when  everything  is  gone  ! 
Why  should  I  live  ? 

Hubert.     O  Cara,  for  his  friend. 
Remember,  I  am  here  ;   and  if  you  love 
The  king,  would  live  for  him,  you  must  include 
His  cherished  comrade  Hubert  in  affection. 
For  I  am  half  of  Almund,  and  would  die 
To  do  him  service. 

Cara.     Then  you  are  not  spiteful  ? 
I  thought  you  snatched  the  cup  away  to  keep 
My  lover  thirsty. 

Hubert.     Dearest,  but  to  plague, 
And  daunt  your  pretty  eagerness,  that  seemed 
Excessive  to  a  stranger. 

Cara.     But  I  knew 
All  through  me  that  I  loved  him. 

Hubert.     See,  this  cloak. 
And  ring,  blood-red,  were  his.     Ah,  swiftest  kisses 
Light  on  these  senseless  objects.     Will  you,  Cara, 
Touch  what  he  never  cared  for,  and  refuse 


Sc.  II.]  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  131 

The  least  caress  to  what  he  holds  most  dear, 

His  living  friend,  myself?  \_She  kisses  him  ?^     Divine  the 

freshness. 
The  firm  assault,  the  intrepidity 
Of  this  short  kiss  !     Until  I  marry  her, 
'Twill  be  a  smarting  memory. 

Cara.     He  loves  you. 
Have  you  not  all  you  want  ? 

Hubert.     No  ;  for  I  long 
To  take  you  to  my  arms. 

Cara.     Are  you  not  filled 
With  everything  you  need  ?     I  want  and  weary 
Simply  because  you  said  he  did  not  love, 
And  could  not  love  me. 

Hubert.     Terrible  the  tears 
That  cannot  gather,  but  are  in  the  look  ! 
Child,  will  you  take  this  ring  he  used  to  wear. 
And  think  of  me  as  giving  it  ? 

Cara.     Oh,  sir, 
I'll  never  lose  it. 

Hubert.     Hold  the  finger  out ; 
Now  you  are  my  betrothed.     Love,  are  you  faint  ? 

Cara.     I  felt  it  like  his  grasp,  his  claim ;  my  body 
Was  frightened  with  its  joy. 

Hubert  [aside].     Only  his  chiding 
Can  end  this  strange  distraction.     On  her  hand 
The  crimson  jewel,  like  the  winkling  red 
Upon  the  hazel,  seems  familiar,  settled 
Where  it  should  fidy  be. — Think  you  are  mine 
Now  that  I  leave  you  lonely.     [Going.] 


132  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.  [Act  II. 

Cava.     Gentleman — 

Hubert.     No,  Cara,  I  am  Hubert. 

Cara.     If  you  meet  him, 
Oh,  tell  him  I  am  his,  a  weary  child. 
Tired  out  since  yesterday.     \^Exit  Hubert  mourfifully?^ 

I'll  go  along 
The  wood,  and  say  it  over  to  myself. 
He  can7iof,  can?iot  love  me ;  but  I  know 
Deep  in  my  heart  he  does.     There  was  a  gift — 
The  king  had  something  for  me  in  his  eyes  ; 
And  when  he  waved  good-bye.     .     .     I  am  quite  sure 
God  made  him  for  me  ;  he  will  come  again.     [Exit.] 


ACT   II. 

Scene  I.     A  Tej'r ace-garden. 

Enter  Almund. 

Almiind.     Not  all  at  once  !     It  comes  too  suddenly 
To  learn  one's  youth  from  the  sharp  cry  of  love. 
There  was  no  preparation, — my  whole  body 
Answers  that  eager  girlhood.     Love,  love,  love, 
Without  which  we  are  made  of  the  mere  clay 
Of  the  world's  aged  floor  !     Not  all  at  once  ! — 
Such  news  of  honour  and  of  joy — to  be 
Chosen  of  God  to  add  the  master-touches 
To  His  unfinished  work :  He  gives  the  lover 
His  coy  girl  Eve  to  make  a  woman  of. 
To  warm,  to  waken.     Ah,  those  changeful  eyes — 


Sc.   I.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  133 

To  fill  with  love's  imperishable  light ; 

That  cheek  to  alter, — such  an  obdurate, 

Untempered  cheek, — and  a  red  mouth  that  never 

Has  learnt  its  heavenly  use.     I  think  I  see  her 

What  I  would  make  her  ;  I  am  called  to  it 

As  tiller  to  his  toil.     And  ignorance — 

The  bonds  I  made  in  ignorance,  before 

I  knew  there  were  such  powers,  this  youth,  this  loving ; 

Bonds  senseless  as  the  winter  covenant 

Of  frost-bound  forest  that,  at  rise  of  sap, 

Breaks  into  red  and  olive — must  avail 

For  life's  suppression  !     I  am  still  a  boy, 

You7ig  as  they  figure  Cupid^  so  my  Hubert 

Hath  often  carolled.     Ah,  the  sunny  lad, 

I  could  not  be  his  rival ;  and  the  fact. 

That  must  be  nailed  through  flesh  and  bone  to  fasten 

My  unsubmitting  senses  to  the  cross. 

Is  this  :  /  am  betrothed. 

\Enter  Hubert.] 

Hubert.     Almund,  the  darling. 
That  with  her  wildness  and  her  storms  has  made 
Such  wreck  of  my  astonished  heart,  refuses 
To  listen  to  my  importunity. 

Almund.     Then  do  not  urge  her,  Hubert,  'tis  a  nature 
That  must  not  be  distressed. 

Hubert.     But  she  is  certain, 
Sweet  fellow,  that  you  love  her  :  to  prevent 
Vain  hope,  I  told  her  that  you  could  not  love, 
Being  betrothed. 

Almund.     Oh,  Hubert,  you  said  justly. 


134  THE  CUP  OF  WATER.  [Act  II. 

[Aside]  Birds  make  no  covenant ;  they  sing  and  build  ; 
There's  no  before  and  after — 

Hubert.     And  I  think 
That  I  can  comfort  her. 

Almund  [turfting  a7vay\     Stiff  promises 
And  resolutions,  and  yon  fleeting  clouds 
Grow  golden  as  they  travel. 

Hubert.     You  will  speak, 
And  make  her  understand  ?     For,  were  you  free, 
I  think  that  I  could  move  you,  in  compassion 
To  woo  her  for  yourself.     To  see  her  suffer 
Is  just  like  speaking  to  a  child  that's  lost ; 
One  cannot  help,  one  cannot  show  the  way, 
And  she  keeps  sobbing. 

Almund.     I  will  go  to  her. 

Hubert.     You  must  not  break  her  heart. 

Ahnund.     By  noon  to-morrow 
I'll  yield  her  to  more  tender  guardianship. 
Oh,  Hubert,  it  is  sweet  to  be  beloved — 
'  Tis  to  be  born  again,  and  find  the  world 
Waiting  the  senses'  pleasure,  at  one's  feet. 
It  never  hath  been  known  how  women  love  ; 
But  those  unpractised  lips  let  fall  a  secret 
Most  terrible,  transforming.     Can  you  bear 
The  pressure  of  such  passion  ? 

Hubert.     You  forget. 
Dear  Almund,.  that  she  gave  the  cup  to  you. 
Tis  not  for  Hubert  to  be  much  beloved, 
Nor  is  he  covetous ;  'tis  but  to  soothe  her 
I  ask  your  intervention.     Did  I  think 


Sc.  I.]  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.  135 

That  you  would  bruise  her,  with  harsh,  tyrannous, 
Will-breaking  words — 

Almund.     I  shall  be  just  and  patient. 
Come  to  the  woods,  and  you  will  find  it  quelled, 
This  pitiful  rebellion. 

Hubert.     Plead  with  her  ! 
To  you,  love  is  a  duty ;  but  your  friend 
Is  bold  to  promise  summer  to  his  wife. 
That  shall  creep  lingering  round  the  aged  years 
And  recreate  them  golden. 

Alniu7td.     I  will  offer 
No  blandishments ; — an  error  to  correct, 
An  ignorance,  and  mischief  to  remove. 
And  then  my  task  is  ended.     Seek  your  bride 
By  that  lone  well  amid  the  bulrushes, 
Where  I  so  often  wander — 

Hubert.     And  none  drink  ! 
A  cheerless  place,  blocked  by  the  meadow-sweet. 
And  willow-herb  in  autumn ;  I  remember 
Your  moody  haunt  by  the  mud-stifled  stream, 
That  now  must  be  half-spectral  with  the  stalks 
Of  skeleton,  grim  reeds.     I  hate  the  aspect 
Of  that  neglected  well  where  everything 
Is  put  from  its  right  purpose,  or  forgotten. 
Bring  me  the  lass  where  yesterday  she  stooped 
Her  pitcher  in  the  spring. 

Almund.     Just  at  its  source  ! 
You  shall  have  all  your  pleasure.  \Exit  Hubert,] 

How  unconscious 
In  his  beseeching  and  perplexity ! 


136  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.  [Act  II. 

'Tis  blessed  that  he  craves  her,  otherwise 
I  could  be  wild  and  wanton.  \Draws  out  tablets  and  ivrites.^ 
[To  an  old  gardener  who  approaches?^     Reuben,  take 
This  letter  to  your  mistress. 

Reuben.  Ay,  sir,  and  happy ;  but  she  hasn't  left  the 
terrace-walk  an  hour.  It's  my  belief  she  spied  you 
coming  through  the  shrubs,  for,  bless  you,  sir,  she  was 
off,  leaving  her  pruning-knife  under  the  rose-tree, — her 
hair  was  a  bit  blown  on  her  forehead,  and  her  hands 
sort  o'  sticky.  She  likes  you,  sir,  to  see  her  in  her  best ; 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  isn't  putting  on  that 
lavender  gown  took  your  fancy  last  June,  with  fresh 
sprigs  at  her  bosom.  I  say  to  her,  the  taste  of  young 
gentlemen  will  change.  I've  worked  for  the  great 
families, — they  like  carnations  one  year,  and  the  next 
nothing  but  pansies  will  please  them.  I'll  be  up  the 
teep  in  no  time ;  for,  sir,  she'll  think  more  of  this 
[holding  up  the  letter']  than  of  the  buds  on  the  tree  that's 
named  after  you,  though  she  smells  at  the  pink  blossoms 
as  if  they  were  lilacs  in  full  bloom.  It's  all  sweet,  I 
reckon,  when  one  is  young,  and  of  a  warm  climate 
inside  like  the  vine-house.  [Exit.] 

Almund.     So  it  should  be  in  youth — all  sweet.     How 
hateful 
Become  the  creatures  that  one  ought  to  love. 
What  heathendom  our  past  with  them  !     That  day 
When  we  stood  peering  down  into  the  stream 
Together,  and  I  smiled  :  Look,  Millice7it, 
How  Heaven  mates  tis  I  we  had  brought  our  books 
To  learn  by  heart  \  but  even  then  I  feel 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  137 

I  could  not  bear  her  touch  upon  my  shoulder, 
And  when  we  read  of  dire  Necessity 
I  thought  she  had  that  form.     She  shared  my  studies, 
The  noble  woman-scholar,  and  I  fancied, 

\Enter  Millicent.] 
I  fancied  that  I  loved  her.     Oh,  my  Hubert, 
Gleeful  and  foolish  in  yon  purple  copse. 
How  you  will  mock  my  wisdom  !     Down  the  beeches 
The  lady  paces  in  that  blemished  gown 
I  hate  the  long,  limp  folds  of.     I  remember 
The  child  wore  a  blue,  spotted  skirt,  and  apron 
Sprinkled  with  berries.     Well,  there  are  three  yards 
Betwixt  us  still.     Better  at  once  begin. 
Now  she  is  nearer  I  discern  a  smile 
Irrelevantly  silver  on  her  brow ; 
I  hate  such  unwooed  shining. — Millicent, 
There  is  not  any  reason  in  the  world 
Why  we  should  not  be  married  ? 

Millicent.     But  this  query. 
Abrupt,  and  so  impulsive,  furnishes 
Sufficient  reason.     I  would  have  you  wait 
Until  you  are  a  man. 

Almimd.     To  love  you  better  ? 
Oh,  that  can  never  be  !     You  ask  too  much  ; 
For  the  boy's  adoration  cannot  wear 
On  into  manhood. 

Millicent.     But  I  dreamed,  beloved. 
That  something  fairer  would  remain,  a  rose 
Of  June,  when  all  spring's  flickering  flowers  were  shed. 
I  have  so  watched  you. 


138  THE  CUP  OF  WATER,  [Act  II. 

Abtiund.     And  the  vigilance 
Were  pardonable  in  maternal  eyes, 
But  in  a  wife — 

Millice7it.     Almund,  if  I  believed 
The  noble  spirit  you  have  made  my  own 
Would  not  grow  riper  'neath  my  wifely  care, 
I  never  would  ensheath  it  in  my  love. 
Dear,  I  must  foster  you. 

Alniu?id.     I  shall  not  answer 
Your  foolish  dreams  \  put  by  your  expectations, 
And  let  me  play  my  part :  we  lived  retired, 
But  my  year's  kingship  has  already  taught  me 
I  cannot  be  a  vessel  to  be  moulded 
By  any  woman's  will.     I  shall  become 
Another  being  as  the  years  increase. 
And  your  fond  worship  of  my  youth  will  vex 
As  any  ancient,  lapsed  idolatry. 
You  too  must  change. 

Millicent.     The  stream  will  darken,  dear. 
Infallibly,  if  there  are  clouds  o'erhead. 

Almund.     I  mean,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  desire 
Always  my  highest  good — you  must  remember 
If  you  are  married  to  me,  we  shall  meet 
Not  in  elected  moments,  but  in  moods 
Often  discordant ;  you  will  find  me  sullen. 
Morose,  reserved,  and  must  not  diet  me 
With  simples  from  your  herbal :  ask  no  questions, 
Imagine  nothing  :  let  me  find  you  merry, 
If  I  need  merriment,  sad,  when  I  grieve. 
I  speak  thus  frankly  to  prevent  mistake, 


Sc.  L]  THE  CUP   OF  WATER.  139 

And  disappointment  after  we  are  married, 
As  we  must  be  at  once.     The  northern  tribes 
Have  broken  on  us.     I  would  leave  a  queen 
To  guard  my  kingdom. 

Millicent.     Whom  you  will  not  trust 
To  rule  your  heart. 

Almund.     Not  the  despotic  way  ; 
I  must  be  free  and  irresponsible. 
Is  it  so  slight  a  thing  that  I  can  leave  you 
Sole  regent  of  my  kingdom  ?     Would  you  rather 
Sway  my  caprices  than  be  made  the  mistress 
And  governor  of  all  that  I  possess  ? 
'Tis  an  unqueenlike  choice. 

Millicent.     I  have  not  made  it ; 
We  must  no  more  interpret  what  the  other 
Suffers,  or  fails  to  suffer. 

Almufid.     Many  things 
Disturb  me.     Hubert,  my  supremest  soldier, 
Is  changed  and  petulant. 

Millicent,     What  ails  your  Hubert  ? 

Almund.     He's  deep  in  love. 

Millicent.     For  the  three  thousandth  time  ? 

Ahnimd.     Once,   as   death   strikes;   one   cannot   tell 
before  ! — 
The  difference  'twixt  innocence  and  guilt, 
'Twixt  peace  and  wildest  ferment !     Hubert  loves 
A  forester's  young  daughter,  and  to-morrow 
I  go  to  bid  her  marry  him  :  she's  wilful. 

Millicent.     You   speak    from   knowledge;    you   have 
looked  on  her. 


140  THE  CUP  OF  WATER.  [Act  II. 

Almund.     She  gave  us  drink  as  we  rode  down  the 
wood. 
To  see  his  pride  fall  off  him  !     He  forgot 
She  was  a  peasant ;  the  bright,  naked  feet 
Were  beautiful  to  him,  and  the  wild  hair, 
That  brushed  one  as  she  stooped, — no  pony's  mane 
Is  rougher,  and  our  Hubert  loves  to  see 
A  lady's  tresses  subject  to  her  art ; 
Yet  when  this  woodland  lass — 

Millicent.     You  do  not  name  her. 

Almund.    She  has  no  name,  one  does  not  think  of  that ; 
She  carols  like  a  bird — to  Hubert's  ear ; 
One  holds  one's  breath  to  listen.     He  neglected 
To  ask  her  name. 

Millicent.     Almund,  you  are  quite  certain 
That  she  will  love  him  ? 

Ahnund.     'Tis  enough  for  woman 
To  be  beloved ;  she  never  must  put  forth 
Her  powers  of  loving ;  'tis  not  to  be  borne. 

Millice?it.     Yea,  if  she  love  her  husband,  tho'  he  slight 
her, 
Unconscious  of  her  worship,  she  can  spend 
Her  unwooed  kisses  on  her  babes,  and  give 
Her  womanhood's  crown  jewels  as  an  alms. 
'Tis  nobler  surely  than  to  wed  unloving, 
And  hate  the  very  moulding  of  the  lip 
One  feeds  from  one's  own  bosom. 

Almund.     You  forget 
How  Hubert  dotes ;  the  glory  of  great  dames 
Grows  cloying  and  monotonous  to  one 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  141 

Who  once  has  seen  a  girl's  breast  heave  with  passion, 
And  watched  her  wonder  at  the  miracle 
That  love  was  working  in  her.     He  is  changed, 
Humbled  and  changed  ;  but  we  will  do  him  honour  \ 
He  shall  be  made  an  earl. 

Milliceiit.     Simply  for  winning 
His  heart's  desire — such  conduct  needs  reward  ? 
Nay,  if  the  king  himself  had  coveted 
This  girl — suppose  it  possible — and  yet, 
For  sake  of  his  pre-contract  with  a  princess. 
Renounced  her,  I  indeed  should  count  him  worthy 
Of  gravest  admiration.     'Tis  not  noble 
To  stoop  from  our  conditions,  which  involve 
Our  duties  ;  to  forego,  for  sake  of  them, 
Some  pleasure  that  would  tempt  us  from  our  place, 
Would  give  a  kingly  impress  to  an  action 
Worthy  a  woman's  deepest  reverence, 
And  worship  of  a  queen.     Our  bright-lipped  Hubert 
Is  but  indifferent  to  external  things  \ 
Yet  this  is  somewhat :  let  us  give  to  him 
The  title  he  despises. — And  our  wedding — 
You  wish  to  speak  of  it — affairs  of  state 
Demand  the  form  ;  but  for  the  sacrament  ? 

Almwid.      The   bond,    my   princess,    never   shall   be 
formal. 
I  leave  you  for  these  wild,  uncertain  wars, 
My  wife,  to  be  the  mother  of  the  son 
Our  kingdom  craves  :  there  is  no  greater  trust. 

Milliceni.      Than  that  of    regent — guardian  too  and 
nurse, 


142  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.  [Act  II. 

Protective  of  your  treasure  ?    You  are  weary 
To-night  and  anxious  ;  had  I  been  your  lady, 
I  should  have  begged  you  to  disburthen,  now 
You  crave  but  my  queen's  wisdom  I  retire, 
And  leave  you  to  self-healing. 

Ahnund.     Millicent, 
'  Tis  as  you  took  the  heliotropes  away, 
I  love  the  scent  of.     There  are  fierce  temptations, 
And  troubles  of  such  sort  as  candour's  self 
May  not  give  tongue  to  ;  this  must  be  : — the  maiden 
Is  reticent,  for  nature  drops  a  secret 
Most  precious  in  her  bosom ;  but  the  boy 
Turns  to  wild  conflict  with  the  fiends, 

Millicent.     A  husband 
Fights  with  a  strong-armed  angel  at  his  side ; 
You  seek  such  safeguard  'gainst  your  enemies  ? 
My  Almund,  it  is  yours.     O  lovely  brows  ! 

\_Sfoopi?ig  and  kissing  his  forehead?^ 
'  Twixt  welcome  and  farewell  there  is  but  little 
In  woman's  life,  except  she  be  a  queen, 
As  you  will  make  me.     Then  all's  different.  [Exit.] 

Almund.     How  sweet  a  majesty  is  in  her  steps, 
How  undeserved  a  grace  !     Now  she  is  gone 
'  Tis  as  the  ordering  sunlight  were  withdrawn. 
And  each  unguided  action  perilous. 
Yet  she  approves  my  course,  my  Hubert's  marriage. 
Even  our  own — I  am  the  more  confirmed 
To  keep  our  contract.     Just  that  little  figure 
To  frighten  to  conformity.     Ah  me  !  [Exil.] 


Sc.  II.]  THE  CUP  OF  WATER.  143 

Scene  II.     The  Wood, 
Enter  Almund  and  Cara. 

Cara.     My  dear  is  come,  is  come  ! 

\They  clasp  in  a  long^  silent  ejfibrace.'] 

Almund.     O  little  love, 
My  woman,  pre-elected  from  the  hour 
I  was  conceived  a  man,  yet  lost,  forbidden  ! 
All  the  great,  germinating  force  that  pushes 
A  leaf-bud  forth  has  bounded  to  your  mouth 
To  form  that  kiss. 

Cara.     Down  in  my  heart  it  lay. 
Panting  to  reach  you  all  this  long,  long  while, 
My  king,  my  lover. 

Ahmmd.     Ah,  to  join  these  names, 
As  this  frank  voice  is  able  ! — By  and  bye 
I'll  face  the  severing  hour.     God,  we  may  hold 
For  just  a  moment  what  we  may  not  keep, 
And  thus  conceive  our  sacrifice. 

Cara.     But  listen : 
I  ran  and  gathered  the  white,  blinking  sallows, 
The  shoots  of  cuckoo-pint,  and  fallen  cones, 
To  dress  my  fountain  ready. 

Almmid.     Is  it  true 
You  put  these  dabbling  bunches  round  the  spring 
For  me  ?     Then  they  are  dearer  than  the  banners 
That  hailed  me  king. 

Cara  [stooping  over  the  spiirges\     I  told  you  he  would 
come, 
You  tiny  flowers,  and  you  would  not  believe ; 


144  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.  [Act  II. 

Now  look  at  him,  and  love  him.     You  dear  man, 
I  wonder  what  I  had  to  think  about 
Before  I  saw  you.     Now  I  have  no  time 
For  sleep ;  I  dare  not  go  to  bed  at  all, 
Lest  I  should  find  it  altered  in  my  heart 
When  I  awake  ;  and  sometimes  in  my  bosom 
I  lose  all  breath,  and  dare  not  think  of  you, 
The  world  is  grown  so  large. 

Almiind.     It  is  the  freedom 
Of  love,  that  breaks  all  puny  bonds,  and  rushes 
Clean  through  our  being  to  God's  crystal  sea. 
Kiss  me  again. 

Cara.     But  it  is  not  good-bye. 
I  put  my  musk-pot  in  the  window-sill. 
And  all  is  sweet  and  warm  there  in  the  sun 
For  hours ;  and  I  must  do  this  every  day, 
If  the  young  plant's  to  thrive.     Again  to-morrow. 
And  every  day  for  ever  you  will  come  ; 
It  never  will  be  ended.     All  the  birds 
Are  singing  in  me,  and  the  crowds  of  flowers 
Are  tossing  in  my  joy.     You  must  not  watch  me 
As  you  were  putting  by  this  happiness. 
To  think  about  hereafter.     Thousand  kisses 
Keep  growing  for  my  lover ;  up  they  spring, 
And  I  could  dance  to  feel  them. 

Almiind.     Little  mouth. 
Your  love  were  perfect  if  it  kissed  to  death ; 
But  I  am  strong ;  all  voices  wail  in  me 
/  cainiot  die.     The  glory  of  this  moment 
Is  fearful,  for  it  shows  how  black  and  small 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  145 

We  are  in  common  life,  when  Memory 
Makes  gossip  in  our  ears.     Shall  she  be  called 
The  mother  of  sweet  poetry  who  fetters 
All  aspiration,  drags  us  down  to  earth. 
And  makes  us  mortal,  pett}',  scrupulous, 
Slaves,  cowards,  fatalists  ?     I  must  remember 
Hubert  will  soon  be  here.     Oh,  Cara,  Cara, 
Did  he  not  tell  you  that  I  am  a  king. 
And  you  must  never  love  me  ? 

Cara.     Your  false  friend, 
He  said  you  had  a  lady. 

Almund.     It  is  true. 
Oh,  what  is  hell  but  truth — a  fiery  candour  ! 

\^Breaksfrom  her.] 

Cara.     ^Miy  do  you  cast  me  out  into  the  wind  ? 
You  were  my  lover.     Are  you  now  the  king. 
The  cruel  king  ? 

AlmuTid  [thrawing  himself  on  the  ground  and  buryi?ig 
his  face  in  the  grass\     I  cannot  bear  to  hear 
The  foot-fall  of  her  voice.     God  !  she  will  come. 
And  bleat  for  me ; — lambs  wander  over  graves, 
And  stop,  and  bleat,  and  shake  their  woolly  heads. — 
I  will  be  buried  from  her  sight. 

Cara.     It  hurts 
Too  much  to  leave  off  lo\-ing  suddenly. 
That  is  an  early  wasp, — they  used  to  sting  me 
When  they  settled  on  my  arm.     How  hard  I  feel ! 
I  knew  it  must  be  terrible  to  freeze, 
And  broke  the  brook — it  ached  so  underneath  ; 
I  know  now  how  it  ached.     /  must  not  love  him  ! 


146  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  [Act  II. 

I  shall  not  any  more  :  it  is  as  certain 

As  that  no  breath  can  issue  from  the  dead. 

\^Shaki}}g  Almund.]     Turn  back  your  face.     Oh,  you  are 

old  and  changed ; 
And  yet  you  look  as  you  would  live  for  ever. 
I  cannot  understand. 

Ahmmd.     You  raised  my  head 
Too  soon,  before  the  penal  change  was  over  ; 
It  was  the  moment  of  my  sentence,  dearest, 
And  it  was  more  than  I  could  bear  to  see 
The  buds,  the  ruby  twigs,  the  darting  light, 
And  your  loved,  early  face. 

Cara.     You  have  put  death 
Far  off.     ...     I  feel  that  I  can  never  reach 
So  many  miles  away.     I'm  but  a  child. 
And  you  have  left  me  nothing. 

Almund.     God,  I  know 
The  pain  to  come  is  cruel,  brutal,  vile. 

Cara.     You    do    not   know;    you   took   the   cup   of 
water, 
And  gave  it  to  your  friend.     You  do  not  love  me. 

Almund.     I  love  you  far  beyond  all  kissing's  pace, 
Faster  than  thought,  with  every  breath  I  draw. 
Cara.     Then  keep  me,  keep  me  ! 
Almund.     Little  life,  I  cannot. 
There  is  a  lady,  who  for  many  years 
Has  loved  me,  not  like  you,  but  with  affection 
As  strong  as  the  unswerving  confidence 
She  places  in  my  honour. 
Cara.     And  you  love  her  ? 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  i^y 

Almund.     Nay,  Cara,  not  a  whit.     I  do  not  love  her, 
Yet  she  shall  be  my  wife. 

Cara.     Poor  lady ! 

Almund.     Cara, 
If  you  can  feel  for  her  who  keeps  me  from  you, 
Who  severs  us,  a  loving,  unloved  woman, — 
Be  yet  a  little  kinder  still,  and  pity 
The  man  who  cherishes,  and  longs  for  you. 
My  noble  Hubert,  who  with  thoughtless  ardour, 
As  delicate  as  rash,  has  yet  a  way 
Of  touching  like  a  nurse.     My  little,  wounded. 
Piteous  Cara,  let  him  take  your  hand, 
And  shelter  you  from  loneliness. 

Cara.     Oh,  cruel ! 
So  base  you  spoil  my  love,  you  hurt  it  all, 
Till  I  must  cry  for  shame.     I  am  too  young, 
Too  mere  a  slip,  to  understand  your  wishes  ; 
But  they  are  cruel,  cruel,  and  so  wicked 
That  you  will  talk  in  vain. 

Almu7id  [aside].     Her  chaste  resentment 
Lashes  me  like  a  wind. — Oh,  Cara,  Cara, 
If  I  can  yield  to  Hubert  my  dear  passion, 
My  whole  delight  in  you,  while  you,  for  me, 
Will  to  my  friend  resign  yourself  in  marriage, 
Shall  we  not  be  united  ?     He  will  join 
Together  our  best  goodness  on  the  day 
He  marries  you  and  owes  you  to  my  loss. 
Could  you  but  understand  ! 

Cara.     It  is  too  bitter — 
All  that  you  say  ;  it  falls  like  flakes  of  snow. 


148  THE  CUP   OF  WATER.  [Act  II. 

I'm  numb  and  hopeless,  and  my  merry  joys 
Are  dropping  off  for  ever. 

Almund.     O  my  God  ! 
Can  it  be  rightly  done — within  her  blood 
To  kill  the  blessed  life,  and  make  its  promise 
A  scattered  vanity  ?     Yet  Hubert  comes, 
And  Millicent  awaits  me,  and  the  power 
To  gather  joy  unmerited  belongs 
In  no-wise  to  my  nature.     Will  you  then 
Receive  from  me  my  friend  to  be  your  husband. 
To  comfort  you,  to  foster  ?     Come,  the  tears 
Are  staunched  at  last ;  but  do  not  clasp  your  hands, 
And  knot  them  like  the  little  oak  above. 
Speak  to  me,  Cara. 

Cara.     I  am  humble  now. 

Almund.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Cara.     I  will  obey  you,  king. 

Ahimnd.     How  hard  and  cold  your  words  ! 

Cara.     For  I  am  dead. 
Dead  to  the  spring,  and  hope,  and  mating-time. 

Almund.     Both  blasted,  both  deformed,  God  looking 
on, 
And  April  in  the  earth  !     We  each  are  spoiled 
For  nature's  stainless  function  ;  but  the  blight 
Is  deeper  in  my  girl ;  for  I  am  strengthened 
By  bonds  and  conscience.     Hubert  comes  at  last. 
\E71ter  Hubert  at  a  distance.^ 

Cara  \_springing  up  at  Almund\     I'll  kill  myself  un- 
less you  promise  me, 
I'll  curse  you  like  a  ghost  unless  you  ask  him 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATERr  149 

To  let  me  give  you  water  once  a  year, 

To  let  me  grasp  your  face  into  my  being, 

And  hear  your  wintry  voice.     I'll  curse  your  wife, 

Your  friend,  and  all  you  love  so  preciously — 

Listen,  you  king,  I'll  curse  them  all  unless 

You  make  him  vow. 

Almund.     Hubert  will  grant  this  favour. 
[AsiWe.'\     Then  there  will  be  one  day  of  resurrection, 
One  day  the  grave-clothes  will  be  tenantless — 
Oh,  heavenly  condition ! 

Hubert.     Have  you  won, 
My  Almund  ? 

Ahniuid.     She  is  yours. 

Hiibert.     Then  come  to  me, 
My  king-wooed  joy  !     Almund,  she  does  not  stir ; 
You  misinterpret. 

Almund.     No ;  she  does  but  pause 
To  hear  me  ask  a  boon — that  you  and  I 
Shall  meet  her  once  a  year  upon  the  spot 
Where  first  we  saw  her,  by  the  creeping  rill, 
And  she  shall  give  to  me  alone  a  cup 
Of  the  slow-dropping  water.     Will  you  grant 
This  wish  of  hers  and  mine  ?     It  is  some  comfort 
For  her  new-aching  grief.     You  understand — 
I  have  been  harsh  and  lofty. 

Hubert.     This  is  little, 
A  thing  scarce  worth  the  asking  from  a  friend. 
Who  loves  you,  and  who  owes  you  everything, 
Even  his  treasured  bride.     My  Cara,  rise, 
Come  to  my  arms.     I  do  not  ask  a  smile, 


ISO  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  [Act  II. 

Until  we  know  each  other,  and  are  friends 
Well-learnt  in  love.     Say,  with  your  woodland  voice, 
That  you  are  mine. 

Cara.     I'll  marry  you. 

Hubert.     Dear  child, 
You  startle  me  ;  your  voice  has  lost  its  tones 
Of  waking  bird-songs  ;  if  indeed  you  care 
No  tittle  for  me,  I  may  pine  with  grief, 
But  I  will  leave  you  happy. 

Cara.     Do  not  go ; 
Make  me  your  wife. 

Hubert.     God  witness  that  I  will ; 
For  I  have  loved  these  tiny  lips,  these  eyes. 
Thrilling  with  shadowed  impulse,  and  a  light 
Of  new-year  sunbeams,  loved  them  hour  by  hour, 
Day  after  day,  have  thought  of  them  at  dawn, 
At  noon,  and  eve. 

Almimd  [aside].     I  loved  her  so  entirely 
I  never  saw  her  beauties  one  by  one. 

Cara.     When  I  am  married     .     .     . 
I  will  be  good  and  gentle. 

Hubert.     Darling ! 

Cara.     Do  not 
Believe  I  shall  be  disobedient. 

Hubert.     I  never  fear  it,  and  your  waywardness 
Is  lovelier  than  submission.     Put  aside 
This  anxious  scanning  of  your  neAv  estate. 

Cara.     I  will  be  meek  and  dutiful. 

Hubert.     Hush,  hush  ! 
You  mind  me  of  a  bird  whose  nest  is  stolen  : 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  151 

An  anguish  of  re-iteration  pours 
Sharp  on  the  air.     Do  not  be  frightened,  Cara, 
To  leave  your  home.     My  friend  has  given  me 
This  tract  of  trees,  and  a  lone  castle  near  ; 
There  shall  you  dwell,  and  freely  as  of  yore 
Shall  haunt  the  spring,  and  pluck  the  shady  flowers. 
A  piercing  sunbeam  strikes  across  your  face  ; 
Trust  me,  my  love,  we'll  have  no  formal  manners, 
But  roam  the  forest,  you  a  woodland  countess. 
And  I  a  rustic  earl.     Come,  I  have  won 
Your  father,  while  the  king  was  winning  you. 
You  are  my  bride  :  bring  with  you  all  your  graces. 
And  do  not  fear  men's  looks  more  than  the  glance 
Of  jays  or  critic  squirrels  ;  let  your  movements 
Keep  their  alert  caprices,  and  your  voice 
Its  acrid  key,  and  sudden  songfulness. 
Be  all  you  were,  and  be  my  own  besides. 
But  do  not  change. 

Cai-a.     I  will  be  good. 

Hubert.     Come,  come ! 
No  more  of  that,  it  pains  me.     Like  a  child, 
Kiss  me  to  heal  the  hurt. 

Cara.     I  will. 

Hubert.     The  flavour, 
The  fine,  elastic  pressure  of  these  lips 
Is  gone ;  but  I  forget,  I  must  have  patience, 
Till  you  Hnk  Hubert's  name  with  happiness, 
With  gifts,  and  life,  and  bounty.     Do  not  trouble 
That  I  should  know  how  you  have  set  your  heart 
Unwitting  on  the  king ;  so  loyally 


152  THE  CUP  OF  WATER.  [Act  III. 

I  love  him,  I  could  give  him  even  you, 
Were  he  not  plighted.     We  will  only  live, 
Dearest,  to  do  his  pleasure. 

Almund.     Once  a  year, — 
Never  meanwhile, — I  meet  in  frosty  March 
The  good  earl's  wife. 

\Aside,  kissing  her  bi-owi\     God  seals  upon  their   fore- 
heads 
Those  whom  He  chooses,  His  elect.     Farewell. 

\ExeuJlt^^ 


ACT    III. 
Scene  I.      The  Terrace-  Walk. 
E}iter  IMiLLiCENT. 

Millice7it.    I  have  not  seen  my  terrace-walk  two  years. 
Now  that  the  rumour  reaches  me  my  husband 
Is  coming  home,  I  have  put  by  my  rule, 
And  left  the  busy  city  for  a  day. 
To  see  if  the  young  sycamore  he  planted 
Be  grown,  and  all  the  bosky  paths  kept  clear. 
He  used  to  love  the  garden.     In  my  absence 
There  have  been  changes,  the  great  storm  has  broken 
That  row  of  poplars  that  shut  out  the  country  ; 
We  can  see  Hubert's  lodge ;  the  woody  fringe 
Is  full  of  gaps.     How  fares  the  lady  Cara  ? 

\E?iter  Reuben  at  a  distance. ^ 
There's  my  old  man  to  gossip  with  ;  but  yet 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  153 

It  were  more  queenly  to  await  events, 

And  give  them  quiet  audience.   [27? Reuben.]  This  ivy, — 

Reuben,  your  master  hkes  it  dipped  in  March  ; 

It  overtops  the  wall. 

Reuben.     Now  what  an  eye  ! 
There  has  not  been  the  time,  though  I'm  a  rare  one 
For  clipping ;  you  can  scarcely  tell  the  nature 
Of  any  of  these  trees,  I've  twisted  them 
So  to  my  pattern.     You,  I  recollect, 
Were  always  for  a  garden  a  bit  wild ; 
The  weeds,  you  thought,  were  prettty  on  the  walks 
Where  they  could  do  no  harm. 

Milliceni.     But  the  king  likes 
The  even  gravel ;  you  can  give  me  pleasure 
Only  as  you  content  him. 

Reuben.     That's  the  point. 
I  never  saw  a  lady  like  yourself 
So  anxious  ;  all  would  now  be  apple-pie, 
If  you  had  a  fresh  colour.     When  I  wheeled  you 
I'  my  barrow  down  the  walks,  and  made  you  wreaths 
Of  hen-and-chicken  daisies  every  day. 
Save  Sunday,  when  you  whimpered, — why,  you  were 
A  pretty  one,  and  no  mistake,  with  solid. 
Round,  rosy  cheeks  ;  you've  fallen  off  in  flesh, 
And  lost  that  placid  look  the  master  liked ; — 
Come  now,  I  know  he  liked  it,  for  one  day. 
When  you  were  but  a  princess,  he  was  standing 
And  looking  toward  your  lattice,  while  I  cursed 
The  bitter,  grating  wind  :  Ah^  therms  fail'  iveather 
For  yon,  I  doubt  not,  Sir,  I  said— bit  riled 


154  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  [Act  III. 

To  see  him  staring  so  ;  but  when  I  looked,    . 
And  saw  you  hke  a  balsam  at  the  pane, 
I  did  not  wonder. 

Millicent.     Is  his  friend  arrived, 
The  good  lord  Hubert  ?     All  our  preparations 
Are  vain,  if  he  be  absent.     For  two  summers 
They  have  been  kept  apart  by  these  long  wars, 
My  husband  in  the  north,  and  his  dear  captain 
Striving  to  quell  the  western  tribes.     No  rumour 
Has  reached  you,  Reuben,  of  the  earl's  return  ? 

Reuben.  Not  a  word ;  but  his  lady  must  be  missing 
him.  It's  lonely  for  a  woman  when  her  child  dies,  and 
she  has  to  look  after  his  burial.  We  can  put  the  little 
things  in  their  coffins.  It  is  not  fit  a  mother  should  do 
that, — she's  too  warm  and  tender. 

Millicent.  A  child,  a  child  !  And  did  you  say  a  son  ? 
But  the  babe's  dead  and  blasted  ! 

Reuben.     Well,  I  own 
I  never  thought  good  luck  would  come  of  it 
After  the  christening. — Seemed  presumptuous 
Of  a  young  wench  that  might  have  been  my  daughter 
To  make  her  brat  a  namesake  of  the  king. 

Millicent.     The  lady  Cara  had  then  a  fair  babe  ? 
Would  it  had  lived  !  Reuben,  you  misconstrue  ; 
'Twas  duteous  of  the  mother  to  remember 
Who  raised  her  husband  to  nobility. 
Most  gladly  had  the  king  been  god-father 
To  our  dear  Hubert's  son. 

Reuben.     But  Almund,  Almiuid  ! 
To  hear  the  common  children  shout  his  name  ! 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  155 

For  she  would  take  the  httle  fellow  down 

To  paddle  in  the  spring  and  sail  the  flowers  \ 

And  all  the  villagers  were  fond  of  her, 

And  the  boy  too.     You  must  not  take  it  ill ; — 

I  think  it  right  that  you  should  know  \ — the  women 

All  said  he  was  the  image  of  the  king. 

I  went  myself  to  have  a  look  at  him 

One  day,  and  it  was  wonderful — not  like  ! — 

Why,  the  blue  larkspurs  come  up  blue  this  year, 

And  last ; — he'd  got  the  lashes,  and  the  eyes. 

And  the  high  forehead.     It  had  been  more  decent 

To  call  him  Hubert.     Taking  all  in  all 

I  think  it  is  as  well  he's  with  the  Lord, 

Where  he  can  do  no  mischief  with  his  looks, 

Poor  innocent ! 

Millicent.     O  Reuben,  you  forget 
His  mother. 

Reuben.     But  if  she'd  no  rights  to  him  ? 
Lord,  how  you  startle  me  with  that  hot  face ; 
'Tis  like  the  day  of  judgment, — flame  of  hell, 
Before  one  gets  a  hearing. 

Millicent.     You  remember 
Your  master  when  he  courted  me, — his  aspect 
Might  well  seem  god-like  to  a  peasant  girl. 
One  day,  at  hunt,  grown  thirsty  in  the  wood. 
He  asked  for  drink  :  Lord  Hubert  loved  the  child 
Who  filled  the  cup,  and,  at  the  king's  command, 
She  married  him,  but  never  has  forgotten 
Her  bright,  brief  day  of  honour.     Once  a  year 
She  offers  tribute  from  the  spring  by  which 


!56  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.  [Act  III. 

She  first  obeyed  her  king.     If  her  sweet  son 

Were  Hke  him,  it  is  hard  to  think  he  died, 

Being  the  only  creature  in  the  world 

Who  might  have  brought  some  comfort  to  your  mistress. 

Let  the  truth  travel  like  a  cleansing  frost 

Through  all  the  country  side.     You  promise  me  ? 

Reuben.  Why,  lady,  it's  too  much  to  remember,  and 
you  knock  it  so  into  my  head  with  your  sharp,  clanging 
voice, — it  bewilders  me.  But  I  take  it  you're  satisfied 
with  the  young  master ;  leastways,  whatever  you  think, 
you  won't  have  tongues  wagging.  I'll  quiet  'em,  I'll  say 
no  man  can  tell  the  colour  of  a  bloom  before  it  opens. 
It  doesn't  depend  on  the  seed.  And  they  won't  con- 
tradict me.     So,  good  even.  [Exif.] 

Millicent.     A  barren  wife,  and  the  young  boy  born 
like  him 
Not  his — so  much  dishonour  and  no  sin  ; 
All  faithful  to  their  vows  ! 

\Looki?ig  towards  Hubert's  casile?\     The  sun  breaks  out 
After  the  gusty  rain,  and  rims  yon  towerS; 
Ah,  Hubert's  wife  can  take  him  to  a  grave. 
Where  they  can  weep  together. 

\_Biiries  her  face  in  her  hands.'] 
\Enter  Almund.J 

Almund.     Millicent. 

Millicent,     You  are  not  unexpected,  though  you  come 
More  suddenly  than  looked  for.     All  your  fields 
Are  sown  for  harvest,  and  the  river  dammed 
Just  where  you  thought  to  stop  the  current's  rush ; 
Old  Reuben  has  been  singing  many  a  day 


Sc.  I.]  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  157 

Over  the  rose-shoots  and  the  trim  arcade. 

0  husband,  why  so  sudden  a  return  ? 

1  scarcely  have  prepared     .     .     . 
Almtmd.     You  are  too  noble 

For  ghastly  fooling,  for  this  weary  talk 
Of  preparation.     Ready  for  my  coming  ! 
Yes,  ready  with  your  sobs. 

Millice7it.     A  little  weeping 
That  I  was  desolate. 

Almwid.     I  have  not  heard 
111  news  ',  I  feel  it  in  the  air,  and  see  it 
Now  in  your  face.     Why  did  you  weep  ?  I  thought 
It  was  because  you  could  not  lift  a  son 
To  give  that  heart-deep  greeting  that  a  wife 
No  other  way  can  utter.     Tell  me  all : 
The  pulses  of  my  heart  are  muffled  bells 
That  toll  and  shiver  : — give  me  utmost  truth — 
This  pausing  is  unworthy.    SfiraspingMwAACY.'^'f'^  arm.] 

Alillicent.     Hubert's  wife 
Bore  him  a  son,  a  lovely  boy  that  died 
Just  as  he  prattled  Mothe?\     He  was  nursed 
Beside  a  forest-brook  ;  the  peasants  say 
He  had  your  stamp  on  every  lineament, 
His  eyes  your  very  own — and  I  rejoice. 

Almtmd.     Immeasurable  faith  !     You  hold  my  name 
Unspotted  by  my  people's  vile  suspicion  ; 
You  love  the  likeness  that  another  wrought 
In  pure  idolatry  ?  I  thought  you  cold, 
Too  cold  to  be  a  mother,  and  a  softness, 
A  joy  has  crept  into  your  face  as  though 


158  THE  CUP   OF   WATER.  [Act  III. 

You  answered  a  babe's  cry.     We  draw  together ; 
My  Millicent,  weep  on. 

Millicent.     The  Httle  lad 
Was  christened  Ahiiund. 

Almund.     But  the  mother  lived  ? 

Millicent.     She  lives  for  you  to  comfort  her. 

Almund.     Not  dead — 

Milliceni.     There  is  another  remedy  than  death  ; 
It  shall  be  given  her.     This  is  a  moment 
When  speech  takes  on  its  full  reality, 
And  says  the  whole  within  us.     You  have  loved 
This  cottage-girl  as  God  would  have  a  man 
To  love  a  woman  ;  you  fulfilled  His  dream. 
I  have  upheld  you  in  your  covenant 
To  me,  and  made  you  break  the  holy  law 
Of  perfect,  human  passion.     O  my  king, 
You  were  a  noble  boy,  and  year  by  year 
The  beauty  goes  from  off  you. 

Alviund.     Millicent — 

Millicent.     We  each  have  sinned ;    but  I,  because  I 
love  you, 
'Scape  inner  ruin  :  you,  my  tortured  husband, 
Are  cramped  by  loveless  honour,  straitened,  spoiled, 
Grown  hard  and  bitter,  though  your  conquering  lips 
Keep  violent  mastery  o'er  pain  and  want. 

Almund.     O  God,  you  can  befriend  my  agony, 
You  suffer  with  my  passion  ?     Noble  wife, 
I,  who  can  never  love  you,  from  henceforth 
Worship  with  all  my  soul. 

Millicent.     I  have  confessed, 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF  WATER.  159 

My  Almund,  and  committed  to  my  voice 

The  silences  of  womanhood,  that  you 

Might  hear  the  love  that  you  can  never  see, 

Because  I  have  no  child.     My  lips  present 

A  gift  of  such  devotion  as  no  travail 

Hath  ever  brought  to  birth  :  a  solemn  gift 

To  hold  forth  to  a  husband.     Take  the  vows. 

Given  in  marriage,  back  again.     How  pale 

You  stand,  as  if  misjudging  me  !     I  know 

That  you  are  pure  as  I  in  the  fulfilment 

Of  our  unblessed  bond. 

Almtmd,     Oh,  I  could  curse 

My  tongue  that  will  not  say  what  still  I  feel, 

That  troth  should  be  for  ever. 
Millicent.     Would  you  keep  me 

The  thing  I  am,  a  wife,  and  the  eternal 
Thou  shall  not  to  a  man's  felicity, 

That  he  perforce  must  hate  ? 
Almtmd.     I  do  not,  hating 
Myself  alone. 

Millicent.     I  will  deliver  you. 
Your  voice  grates  on  me, — 'tis  a  voice  in  irons. 

Almund.     O  fearful  love  !    But  you  forget  my  Hubert 
Has  he  no  rights  ? 

Millicent.     Almund,  I  do  not  think 
Of  Hubert ;  I  will  answer  for  no  man 
In  such  a  coil  as  ours.     What  I  have  said 
Lies  between  you  and  me ;  I  loose  the  fetters 
That  make  your  home  a  prison.     You  shall  speak 
All  in  your  writhing  heart,  renew  its  passions, 


i6o  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.  [Act  III. 

And  fear  no  impious  jealousy,  no  pride 
Of  injured  claims.     I  pray  you  to  entrust 
Your  pain,  your  deathless  love  for  Hubert's  wife, 
To  me,  who,  self-divorced  from  you,  shall  give 
No  mis-becoming  comfort,  no  unchartered 
Compassion  and  relief. 

Almu7id.     Then  be  my  friend, 
Not  the  dishonoured  wife  whom  I  shall  never 
Forgive  myself  for  wedding.     Millicent, 
As  no  young  bridegroom  dare,  I  lay  my  soul 
Naked  before  your  eyes.     I  thought  I  loved  you  ; 
Suddenly  passion  leapt  in  me, — pure  fervours 
Of  life ;  I  strove  to  quell  them,  and  I  could  not, 
But  whelmed  them  in  suppression,  till  my  brain 
Was  mad  with  evil.     O  my  woman-friend, 
I  know  the  deeps  of  sin  as  none  can  know 
Who  do  ill  actSj  for  I  have  spent  my  days 
Looking  down,  down  into  the  pit  of  hell. 
Because  my  love  lay  drowning  in  the  slime, 
And  I  must  watch,  in  agony  that  often 
Pressed  through  my  flesh  as  dew,  yet  dried  the  tears 
For  ever  from  my  eyes. 

Millicent.     You  pause  ;  my  pity 
Stretches  beyond  all  horror. 

Almund.     Then  it  is 
For  her,  not  me.     The  anguish  of  my  guilt, 
My  holy  love  polluted,  were  as  nothing 
In  misery  beside  the  pressing  thought 
Of  how  she  suffered, — such  a  child,  and  yet 
All  womanhood  was  waiting  in  her  heart. 


Sc.  I.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  i6i 

Till  I  should  wed  her.     The  first  year  I  went, 

And  with  her  husband  met  her  by  the  spring, 

She  looked  at  me  until  I  only  saw 

Great,  busy  eyes  that  seemed  to  use  my  face 

As  yarn  to  fasten  on  a  spinning-wheel. 

I  nearly  died  ;  upon  my  horse's  neck 

I  fell  unconscious. 

MiUicent.     You  are  trembling  now. 

Almund.     With    weakness    at    the    outrush    of    my 
secrets 
From  loneliness  and  burial  :  'tis  like 
The  passage  of  an  earthquake. 

Millicent.     Let  me  press 
This  burning  forehead,  for  my  hands  are  cold, 
While  the  divulging  torrent  of  your  voice 
Takes  heed  of  nothing,  but  that  I  attend, 
Too  merciful  to  comfort. 

Almund.     I  am  freed. 
But  all  in  ruins.     Now  you  know  the  worst 
And  best  of  my  despair — its  lustful  madness. 
Its  rooted  love  to  her.     As  if  I  knelt 
Beside  Christ's  mother  I  am  not  ashamed. 
For  your  compassion,  fouled  by  no  reproach, 
Stings  not  my  blood. 

Millicent.     And  once  again  this  brow 
Is  frank  as  in  your  boyhood,  just  as  open. 
Thank  God ! 

Almund.  I  like  to  feel  your  touch,  it  seems 
To  know  me,  and  to  soothe  each  painful  throb 
Close  to  its  source.     But,  Millicent,  to-day 


r62  THE  CUP  OF  WATER.  [Act  III. 

According  to  my  promise  I  should  enter 
The  forest. 

Milliceni.     Yes,  I  know,  and  you  must  hasten ; 
The  day  wears  on.     Nay,  do  not  start  so  wildly, 
For  if  you  are  ungentle,  you  will  scare 
The  Httle,  childless  mother,  and  may  kill  her 
Who  is  your  Hubert's  wife. 

Al?7iund.     I  will  be  tender. 
Touch  me  again  !     Farewell,  my  great,  new  friend. 
The  guardian  of  my  soul.     I  kiss  these  hands. 
These  saving  hands.     Your  eyes — how  beautiful ! 

Scene  II.     The  Wood^  by  the  Spring. 
Enter  Cara. 

Cara.     The  little  face 
Grew  hard,  I  dared  not  kiss  it  any  more  ; 
And  now,  unless  he  come — It  is  the  day. 
How  the  birds  quarrel  ! — I  must  just  return, 
And  dig  the  little  grimy  body  up. 
All  night  I  listened  close  down  on  the  turf 
If  he  should  call  me  ;  but  he  cannot  call 
With  those  hard,  alien  lips.     He  seems  to  hate  me. 
And  I  hate  him, — I  hate,  I  hate  the  dead, 
I  do  not  want  to  see  them  any  more, 
They  are  such  changelings.    When  the  neighbours  came 
And  looked  at  the  stone  image,  with  no  trace 
Of  want  or  feebleness,  they  called  it  like 
The  little,  tender,  playful,  tottering  lad 
I  stooped  to  steady.     God  could  never  mould 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  163 

A  baby's  dimpling  cheek  ; — it's  tears,  tears,  tears  ! 
He  shapes  the  dead,  and  alters  all  the  lines 
O'  the  lids  and  mouth ;  one  cannot  find  the  old. 
Sweet  spots  for  kisses.     Hubert  will  return 
And  pet  me.     I  have  seen  a  dog  some  stranger 
Passes  his  hand  across  ;  it  gives  no  pleasure, 
The  creature  feels  it's  kind,  and  then  walks  off 
More  wretched.     Ah,  the  baby  did  not  know, 
He  never  tried  to  comfort.     There's  no  use 
For  Cara  in  the  world :  the  old  are  useless, 
But  then  they  are  half-dead.     I  cannot  cry, 
I  know  if  once  I  sobbed  that  I  should  never 
Catch  the  sweet  air  again.     The  leaves  are  budding, 
These  chestnut-leaves.     Oh,  they  have  woolly  wraps, 
They're  young — quite  little  ones. 

\E?iter  Almund.] 

Almund.     A  widowed  creature, 
With  strange,  snow-sprinkled  hair,  and  empty  eyes. 
I  dare  not  startle  her, — she  stands  too  nigh 
The  precipice  of  death  for  me  to  thrill  her 
With  joyful  news. 

Cara  \tur71h1g  and  sprmgtJig  to   him\     Why,  he    is 
grown  a  man  ! 
O  Almund,  Almund.     This  is  wonderful ! 
It  hurts  so  at  my  heart.     It  must  be  years 
Since  it  all  happened.     Do  not  let  me  loose ; 
If  you  will  only  stay  a  little  while 
'  Twill  be  all  over ;  you  can  settle  then 
Whether  it's  wrong  or  right.     Pull  down  your  curls 
For  me  to  play  with.     Silky,  summer  hair  ! 


i64  THE  CUP   OF  WATER.  [Act  III. 

I  made  his  fine  like  this.     Oh,  I  am  happy. 
Don't  speak,  and  change  it. 

Almund.     Cara,  Usten  !     Hush  ! 
I  am  not  married  to  the  queen.     I'm  free. 

Cara.     And   I    am   Huberfs   wife!     It   makes   me 
laugh  ; 
It  is  not  true,  and  a  wise  king  knows  better 
Than  make  believe.     I  had  a  little  son  ; 
God  knew  the  truth  ;  He  built  him  step  by  step 
Like  you — a  perfect  miniature,  and  yet 
With  hair  less  auburn.     I  was  glad  to  give  him 
Cara's  own  hazel  threads.     He's  yours  and  mine. 
You'll  see  him  when  you  bury  me ;  break  open 
The  tiny  coffin ;  let  us  lie  together. 

Almund.     I  dare  you  speak  of  death ;  you  shall  not 
die 
Till  you  are  mine.     What  is  your  woman's  hunger  ? 
You  faint  with  it ;  but  when  a  man  must  fast 
His  appetite  grows  eager  for  revenge. 
Now,  Cara,  you  must  pay  to  me  the  debt 
Of  love's  long-rankling  score.     Come,  cuddle  close ; 
Each  stir  and  change  you  make  is  chronicled 
Through  all  my  body,  and  the  blessedness 
Repeats  that  I  have  got  you  in  my  arms. 
Till  I  can  just  believe  it.     These  long  years 
My  life  has  been  a  barren  sea-shore  washed 
By  surging  floods  of  passion  ;  nothing  grew  there, 
Nothing  took  root,  there  was  no  food,  no  shelter. 
Don't  travel  far  away  with  those  soft  eyes  ! 
You're  thinking  of  the  child  ;  it  maddens  me. 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  165 

Cara,  I'm  thirsty ;  give  me  of  love's  drink  ! 
Have  you  forgotten  ? 

Cara.     No,  for  I  remember 
A  lady  loves  you.     Almund,  it  is  fearful     .     .     . 

Almimd.     Call  me  the  king. 

Cara  \smiling\.     I'm  used  now  to  the  name. 
I  shouted  to  my  little  lad  so  often 
On  the  brow  of  the  big  field  where  there's  the  echo, 
Simply  to  hear  the  name.     O  Almund,  Almund, 
There  must  not  be  this  misery  again ; 
We  women  cannot  bear  it.     Once  I  saw  her ; 
She  could  not  speak,  but  she  just  pressed  my  hand. 
And  kissed  me.     I  will  give  you  back  to  her, 
If  you  will  only  stay  a  little  while. 
Now  say  it  over  to  me  like  a  hymn. 
How  you  have  always  loved  me.     Do  not  promise 
That  you  will  not  forget — I  have  no  fear  ; 
It's  graven  in  your  eyes.     But  those  three  years 
You  did  not  come — before  too  he  was  born ; 
I  must  not  think  of  it.     .     .     .     It  hurts  again 
Here  at  my  heart.     O  Almund,  Almund,  Almund  ! 
Something  shrieks  in  me  ;  I  must  call  the  child 
Across  the  fields.     .     . 

\She  shrieks  aiid falls  hack  dead. 

Almund.     O  God,  she  is  a  mother. 
The  small,  bleak  spirit  shrills  out  in  the  air 
A  cry  for  love,  and  I  am  starving  here  : 
'Tis  death's  strange  irony  ;  and  once  she  stood 
The  red  lips  kissing  me  as  fast  as  dew 
Is  shaken  from  a  thorn.     Oh,  I  shall  find 


1 66  THE  CUP  OF   WATER.         [Act  III. 

All  the  great  years  of  hell  inadequate 

To  mourn  this  mighty  error  and  defeat. — 

To  put  such  gift  away,  and  youth  and  manhood 

Stirring  within  me  !     I  refused  her  love, 

And  must  cohabit  now  with  lust  for  ever. 

She  does  not  heed  me.     She  is  soft,  maternal. 

And  full  of  heavenly  cares.     I  cannot  touch  her, 

I  can  but  stand  here  damned  and  impotent, 

Most  bitterly  aloof,  and  unremorseful 

Of  everything  save  virtue. 

[Enter  Hubert.] 
Take  her,  Hubert ; 

Though  whether  she  be  yours  or  mine,  I  know  not — 
An  ancient  gift  come  back  upon  my  hands 
While  you  were  at  the  wars.     I  gave  her  once ; 
You  begged  her  of  me  :  women  are  not  chattels 
To  deal  with  as  one's  generosity 
May  prompt  or  straiten.     .     .     . 

Hubert.     Almund,  she  is  dead  ! 
Cara,  my  little  wife, — oh,  she  has  broken 
Her  tender  heart  with  grieving  for  our  boy. 
No  babe  to  fondle,^no  poor,  clumsy  Hubert 
To  light  the  piteous  smile  for, — so  you  asked 
Grim  death  to  take  you  where  you  might  have  rest, 
You  little,  weary  creature.     AVhy,  'tis  something 
To  see  you  lying,  love,  the  pretty  mouth 
Freed  from  all  struggle,  and  the  hazel  eyes 
Fallen  asleep, — they  were  the  dearest  eyes 
In  all  the  world, — but  when  they  looked  so  dumb, 
When  nothing  happened  in  them,  and  they  grew 


Sc.  IL]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  167 

A  prison  for  the  tears,  I  could  but  pray 

To  fall  in  battle,  and  forget  the  pain  ; 

Yet  all  this  while  you  have  been  happy,  sweet. 

And  singing  with  the  child.     You  promised  me 

You  would  be  happy  when  the  babe  was  born. 

This  wavy  hair  !     O  Cara,  we  must  smooth  it ; 

You  must  remember,  love,  that  you  are  dead, 

And  we  must  have  some  state  ;  the  king  himself 

Will  lift  you.     Almund,  I  could  never  rid  her 

Of  that  poor,  superstitious,  fond  belief 

You  loved  her :  it  would  please  her  now  to  think 

You  helped  to  bury  her  [looking  tip\.     What  have  you 

done? 
You  have  not  murdered  her  ?     I  thought  you  came 
To  comfort  her,  to  drink  the  promised  cup. 
And  found  her  lifeless  :  but  some  guilty  deed 
Is  written  on  your  brow. 

Almiind.  Death  came  between, 
Or  you  had  found  me  an  adulterer. 
Now,  Hubert,  judge  me. 

Hubert.     Hush,  for  there  are  devils 
This  sweet  face  must  not  wot  of.     You  accuse  her 
To  me,  her  husband,  who  am  sure  she  loved  you 
Heart-brokenly  as  God  would  have  a  sinner 
Yearn  for  His  favour.     Could  you  misinterpret  ? 
You  have  fierce,  flaming  eyes.     Oh,  it  is  cruel 
To  think  they  fell  on  her. 

Almund.     Yes,  I  have  lusted  ; 
Yet,  Hubert,  she  died  quiet  in  my  arms. 
I  have  not  wronged  you. 


1 68  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.         [Act  III. 

Hubert.     But  your  face  is  flint, 
As  when  I  trusted  you  to  plead  for  me, 
And  found  my  Cara  crouching  and  subdued, 
And  you  a  moody  tyrant.     You've  no  touch 
For  such  fine  natures.     You  have  told  her  now — ■ 
Have  you  ? — that  she  was  wicked  and  unfaithful, 
For  loving  you. 

Almimd.     It  is  irrational 
To  try  to  ope  one's  being  to  the  dead ; 
And,  Hubert,  you  have  never  known  your  friend. 
You  do  not  even  call  by  their  own  names 
My  sins  and  my  temptations.     I  must  back, 
Back  to  life's  dreary  offices.     Farewell.     [Gomg.] 

Hubert.     The  straight,  gaunt  figures  !    And  how  sharp 
a  look 
He  fixed  on  the  poor  outlines  !     Nay,  I'll  buy 
One  more  last  grace  for  her.     Almund,  come  back. 
And  seal  these  eyes  with  kisses  ;  they  will  purge  you 
Of  every  evil  thought.     You  stumble. — Almund, 
What  secret  are  you  hiding  from  your  friend  ? 
Could  you  not  bear  her  importunity  ? 
It  was  most  innocent — such  as  the  princess, 
I  mean  the  lady  Millicent  herself, 
Had  scarcely  blamed. 

Almund.     What,  do  you  lead  me  to  her  ? 
Can  she  be  mine  now  'neath  the  coffin-lid, 
And  will  you  never  touch  her  any  more, 
Nor  look  upon  the  face  of  her  young  son. 
Who  bears  my  features  ?     Will  you  make  a  place 
For  me  to  lie  beside  her  when  I'm  dead, 
And  never  come  between  ? — /  avi  her  lover. 


Sc.  II.]  THE   CUP   OF   WATER.  169 

Hubert.     O  Almund,  you  look  young — an  exaltation, 
A  glory  in  your  face  ;  the  past  unfolds 
In  all  its  miracle, — for,  ah,  how  dearly 
If  you  have  loved  her,  have  you  loved  your  friend. 
Take  the  brown  head  to  rest  upon  your  knee, 
For  mine  has  simply  been  the  nurse's  part. 
The  httle  one  bore  piningly,  and  now 
We've  found  where  she  belongs. 

Almund  [folding  Cara  i?i  his  arms].     Oh,   she  had 
drink 
For  a  man's  deepest  thirst. 

Hubert.     Poor,  broken  trifle — 
All  that  is  left  to  offer  to  my  friend 
Amid  this  cursed,  senseless  sacrifice. 
How  dared  you  keep  your  love  from  her  ? 

Almu7id.     The  princess, 
My  troth-plight ;  there  were  others. 

Hubert.     I  forgot. 
My  Almund,  you  are  born  that  none  can  live 
Without  your  love  ;  there  is  no  little  weed 
But  will  proclaim  its  birthright  to  the  sun ; 
You  hid  from  this  sweet  vetchling,  and  the  leaves 
Lost  all  their  sturdy  twine. — Ay,  there  were  others. 
This  blessed  heart,  she  could  not  understand 
That  love  can  have  no  empery  on  earth, 
There  are  so  many  others.     'Tis  but  little 
That  we  can  do  for  them,  and  yet  to  ease 
Their  pain  there  hath  been  all  this  tragedy. 
I  know  not  if  'tis  well. 
Almund.     She  has  the  kisses 


I70  THE   CUP  OF   WATER.         [Act  III. 

Of  three  long  years  ago ;  my  Hubert  knows 

How  dearly  Almund  rates  him  ;  Millicent 

Will  in  deep-bosomed  friendship  be  my  own ; 

And  things  are  settled  on  this  blithe,  green  earth 

Almost  as  it  were  heaven,  where  happy  souls 

Ne'er  vex  themselves  with  marriage.  The  young  kingcups 

Are  sprouting  lustily,  and  golden  nature 

Is  full  of  her  fresh  joys.     Oh,  we  must  learn 

To  drink  life's  pleasures  if  we  would  be  pure, 

Deep,  holy  draughts,  and  the  girl-cupbearer 

Must  not  be  set  aside. 


Crown  Svo,  parchment  cover,  6s. 
Second  Edition. 


CALLIRRHOE: 

FAIR  ROSAMUND, 

By  MICHAEL  FIELD. 


Eontion : 

GEORGE    BELL  &   SONS, 

York  Street,  Covent  Garden. 


mifton  : 
BAKER  &   SON. 


-^ic  0PI]^I0N3  ^  OF  ^  ¥PE  ^  PI^Egg  -^^ 

ON   THE   FIRST   EDITION. 


From  the  ''SATURDAY  REVIEW:' 
"  It  is  many  years  since  we  have  read  a  new  poem  so  instinct  with  the 
immutable  attributes  of  poetry,  so  free  from  current  cant  and  trick,  and 
animated  by  an  inspiration  so  warm  and  native  and  unfailing.  The 
drama,  though  classic  in  subject,  is  modern  in  form,  and  almost  de- 
nuded of  lyrical  ornament.  There  is  no  chorus,  and  there  are  no 
experiments  in  Greek  metres.  Still  more  characteristic  is  the  inter- 
polation of  certain  humorous  scenes  conceived  in  the  wanton  spirit  of 
the  Elizabethan  drama  ;  and,  underlying  all,  runs  an  eccentric  vein  of 
fateful  irony,  which  affords  the  most  individual  expression  of  the 
author's  genius.  ,  .  .  This  bald  outline  of  the  action  of  course  only 
indicates  the  leading  motif  o{\\\q.  drama,  the  virtue  and  power  of  love's 
sacrifice  ;  it  must  be  left  to  the  reader  to  enjoy  the  skill  with  which 
the  dramatic  conduct  is  evolved,  the  beauty  of  the  conception  of  the 
drama,  the  strength  and  purity  of  the  language,  and  the  brilliant  dis- 
tinction and  consistent  development  of  the  chief  characters.  In  '  Fair 
Rosamund  '  are  several  scenes  worthy  of  comparison  with  the  most 
striking  in  *  Callirrhoe,'  though  the  drama  is  less  comprehensive  in 
projection  ;  not  less  certainly  than  the  latter  does  it  prove  Mr.  Field  to 
be  a  poet  of  notable  endowments  and  distinguished  powers." 

From  the  ''SPECTATOR.'' 
"  These  poems  are  poems  of  great  promise  ;  ...  we  have  found 
a  wealth  of  surprises  in  the  strength,  the  simplicity,  and  the  terseness 
of  the  imaginative  feeling  they  display,  that  convinces  us  of  his  power 
to  do  much  more  than  he  has  here  done, — though  even  that  is  no  trivial 
beginning.     .     .     .     If  that  has  not  the  true  poetic  fire  in  it, — dramatic 


fire,  too,  as  well  as  poetic — the  present  writer  must  be  destitute  of  all 
discernment.  To  him  it  sounds  like  the  ring  of  a  new  voice,  which  is 
likely  to  be  heard  far  and  wide  among  the  English-speaking  peoples." 

From  the  '' ATHENE UM.'' 
"The  writer  vmdoubtedly  possesses  the  two  qualities  absolutely  es- 
sential to  all  dramatic  writing — those  of  being  able  to  create  and  to 
make  the  creations  express  themselves  with  the  terse  and  vivid  expres- 
sion which,  by  a  happy  epithet,  at  times  lays  bare  an  entire  condition 
of  mind.  .  .  .  Very  striking,  despite  a  false  note  or  two,  and 
showing  something  almost  of  a  Shakespearean  penetration  into  a  half- 
human  nature,  is  the  scene  between  Machaon  and  the  Faun." 

From  the  ''ACADEMY.'' 
"  Mr.  Field  is  very  clear  as  to  his  message.  He  sings  the  glories 
of  enthusiasm,  and  preaches  the  gospel  of  ecstasy  to  an  old  chiller- 
minded  world.  It  is  not  often,  in  modern  English  verse,  that  we 
light  upon  a  book  so  genuinely  romantic.  The  scorn  of  bourgeois 
common-place,  the  ««z/ young  hatred  of  'the  lame  creature,  custom,' 
the  urgent  battle  waged  against  routine  in  these  plays,  with  their  fresh 
poetic  ring,  belong  to  another  age  than  ours.  ...  It  will  be  seen 
that  here  is  a  young  writer,  with  plenty  of  convictions  and  plenty  of 
courage.  In  addition,  we  may  credit  him  with  a  fresh  gift  of  song,  a 
picturesque  and  vivid  style,  as  yet  without  distinction  or  reserve." 

From  the  "  TIMES :' 
"Will  Mr.  Field  become  a  poet  in  the  sense  in  which  the  title  is 
rarely  granted  ?     Perhaps — '  II  ne  faiU phis  qiCtin  pas  ;  mais  cest  ouje 
V  attends:'' 

From  the  * '  BAIL  V  NE  WS:' 
"  The  author  is  to  be  congratulated  on  the  promise,  and  even  to  a 
great  extent,  on  the  performance,  of  '  Callirrhoe.'  One  cannot  read 
the  book  without  saying,  '  This  is  poetry  in  places,  and  everywhere  is 
far  above  the  level  of  the  verse  maker.'  ...  It  will  be  very 
interesting  to  watch  the  future  literary  fortunes  of  '  Michael  Field.'  " 

From  the  ''PALL  MALL  GAZETTE:' 
"Mr.  Field's  first  and  longest  play  ...  is  by  no  means  the 
best,  though  it  has  merits.  The  second,  *  Fair  Rosamund,' has  real 
power.  The  scenes  in  which  Eleanor  encourages  the  dissension  and 
disobedience  of  her  sons  are  more  like  the  work  of  the  minor  Eliza- 
bethans than  the  similar  work  of  any  recent  writer,  except  the  late  Mr. 
Home.  ...  A  man  who  can  write  as  follows  ought  to  do  some- 
thing : 

Now  I  can  see  their  scrimped  kirtles  green, 
And  swinging  beads  of  dew  about  their  necks. 
They've  not  the  pretty  caps  of  midsummer, 
Poor  midges— only  cowslip  bells,  o'er-young, 
2 


That  fall  at  every  jerk  ;  and  dirty  cups 
From  acorns  of  last  year. 
I'll  make  my  tiny  peaked  bonnets  red,< 
And  see  if  they  will  pick  'em  from  the  twigs. 

We  do  not  think  Drayton  would  have  refused  to  sign  this.  Indeed, 
the  whole  piece  is  very  interesting,  especially  if  compared  with  Mr. 
Swinburne's  too  little  known  juvenile  work  on  the  same  theme.  Mr. 
Field  has  a  less  original  and  masterly  command  of  verse  than  Mr. 
Swinburne  then  showed,  and  much  less  splendour  and  variety  ot 
diction;^  but  his  work  is,  perhaps,  more  directly  human,  and  therefore 
more  dramatic  in  interest,  and  his  touches  of  nature  are  more  spon- 
taneous, and  less  weakened  by  dwelling  on  them." 

From  the   ''SCOTSMAN:' 

"  A  WORK  not  only  of  remarkable  promise,  but  of  notable  performance 
as  well.  .  .  .  In  '  Fair  Rosamund  '  Mr,  Field  has  chosen  a  theme 
that  has  become  hackneyed  in  dramatic  poetry.  Yet  the  airy  freshness 
and  bloom,  which  are  the  great  charms  of  his  classic  play,  are  as 
noticeable  here ;  and  it  also  exhibits  not  less  his  strength  in  character 
drawing  and  his  facile  management  of  blank  verse  metre.  In  both 
poems  there  is  that  ethereal  quality  that  distinguishes  what  is  poetry 
from  what  is  not ;  and  they  will  raise  keen  expectation  regarding  what 
else  their  author  may  have  to  offer  to  the  world. " 

From  the  "  YORKSHIRE  POST:' 

*'  '  Callirrhoe  and  Fair  Rosamund  '  .  .  .  are  powerful,  unique, 
and  such  as  an  author  may  be  heartily  congratulated  upon,  but  they 
give  us  the  impression  of  buds  rather  than  full  blooms.  The  man 
who  wrote  these  two  poems  will  yet  write  more  fully  and  adequately 
for  the  complete  rounding  of  a  theme — at  least  we  hope  so  ;  or  his 
own  work's  good  promise  will  be  broken.  With  more  freedom,  more 
fulness,  with  better  form,  .  .  .  the  author,  we  are  sure,  could 
adequately  portray  tragedy  either  for  the  stage  or  the  study." 

From  the  ''LIVERPOOL  MERCURY:' 

*'  Birth-marks  of  the  tragedist — so  conspicuously  absent  from  even 
such  masterly  works  as  the  Laureate's  '  Harold  '  and  '  Queen  Mary,' 
are  unmistakably  visible  in  these  two  short  and  in  many  ways  imperfect 
poems.  ...  A  great  attitude  of  passion  is  scaled  in  this  scene. 
.  .  .  The  Queen  is  conceived  in  somewhat  Marlowesque  fashion. 
She  is  not  of  humanity,  but  of  the  Eumenides.  ...  A  really 
imaginative  creator  .  .  .  will  often  make  his  dialogue  proceed  by 
abrupt  starts,  which  seem  at  first  like  breaches  of  continuity,  but  are  in 
reality  true  to  a  higher  though  more  occult  logic  of  evolution.  This 
last  characteristic  we  have  remarked  in  Mr.  Field,  and  it  is  one  he 
shares  with  Shakespeare." 


From    ' '  HARPER'S  NE  W  MONTHL  V  MA  GAZINE. " 
"Mr.  Field  has  a  voice  of  his  own,   whatever  his  sins  of  Hterary 
omission  or  commission,     .     .     .    a  style  which  certainly  possesses  the 
rare  merit  of  striking  one  as  original  and  poetic." 

Fro VI  the  ''CENTURY''  MAGAZINE. 
"  *  Callirrhoe  '  is  classical  merely  in  subject  and  time,  and  is  treated 
in  a  modern  way,  the  characters  being  living  men  and  women,  with  a 
language  compact  of  beauty  and  imagination.  '  Fair  Rosamund  '  is 
brief,  strong — the  culminating  act  of  a  tragic  scheme  that  has  beguiled 
great  artists  to  its  handling.  .  .  .  Michael  Field  is  ambitious,  and 
has  warrant  for  it." 


Crown  Svo,  pa7'chment  cover ^  'js.  dd. 


THE  FATHER'S  TRAGEDY, 
WILLIAM  RUFUS, 

LOYALTY  OR  LOVE? 

By  MICHAEL  FIELD. 


-Nc  0PIJVI0N5  ^  6E  ^  JFPE  ^  PREgg.  :!£<- 
"THE  FATHER'S  TRAGEDY." 

Fro7Pi  the  ' '  A  THENJE  UM. " 
"  This  is  a  powerful  and  essentially  virile  composition,  all  the  cha- 
racters, especially  the  weak-minded,  much-suffering  king,  being  deli- 
neated with  care  and  discrimination,  while  the  dramatic  expression  not 
unfrequently  rises  to  almost  the  strength  of  Elizabethan  men." 

From  the  "  CONTEMPORARY  REVIEW." 
"Every  scene  is  vivid  and  dramatically  necessaiy.      The   verse  is 
.     .     .     unforced  and  eloquent." 

From  the  ' '  SA  TURD  A  Y  RE  VIE  W. " 
"  '  The  Father's  Tragedy  '  contains  several  scenes  of  uncommon 
power,  many  passages  of  exalted  and  sustained  imaginative  fire,  where 
pathos  and  passion  burn  and  thrill  to  the  irresistible  awakening  of 
responsive  emotions.     ..." 

4 


"WILLIAM  RUFUS." 

From  the  ''BRITISH  QUARTERLY:' 
"Though  not  a  i^v^  liberties  have  been  taken  with  history,  it  is 
faithful  to  the  leading  types,  full  of  movement,  and  is,  above  all,  con- 
sistent with  itself.  Some  of  the  speeches  of  William  Rufus,  Flambard, 
and  Anselm  are  instinct  with  vigour,  and  here  and  there  we  have  a 
line  or  two  that  dwells  persistently  in  the  memory." 

From  the  ''  ATHEN.^UMy 
"  'William  Rufus  '  is  in  one  way  a  remarkable  experiment,  being 
a  work  without  any  feminine  interest  at  all.     It  is  a  gloomy  and  power- 
ful production,     ...     in  point  of  style  even  more  vigorous  than 
'  The  Father's  Tragedy.'  " 


"LOYALTY  OR  LOVE?" 

From  the  ''ACADEMY:' 
*•  The  scene  where  the  young  prince  renounces  claim  to  the  crown  of 
Sicily,  and  the  last  scene  of  all,  have  dramatic  quality  of  a  high  rank. 
In  the  latter  the  same  note  recurs  which  gave  such  charm  to  the 
episode  of  the  Faun  in  '  Callirrhoe,'  a  sort  of  speaking  straight  out  as 
it  were,  which,  in  its  delicate  and  pathetic  cadence,  goes  far  to  redeem 
the  faults  of  the  play." 

From  the  "BRITISH  QUARTERLY:' 
"  Some  of  the  situations  are  very  affecting  and  effectively  used." 


Crown  Svo,  paper  cover,  \s. 


BRUTUS    ULTOR. 

By  MICHAEL  FIELD. 

(Author  of  "  Callirrhoe  and  Fair  Rosamund,"  "The  Father's  Tragedy,'"  etc.) 


-He  0PI]SII0]SIg  -f  0E  ^  JiipE  \  Pr^E^g.  :[^^ 

From,  the  ' '  A  CADE  MY. " 
"The  present  poem  contains  some  passages  which  in  their  pregnant 
and  incisive  brevity  immediately  suggest  the  work  of  our  old  dramatists, 
and  would  not  disgrace   the  greatest  of  them.     ...     It   may  be 


pronounced  an  adequate  treatment  of  a  high  subject,  a  drama  not 
unworthy  of  the  very  considerable  reputation  which  its  author  has 
already  achieved." 


From  the  "  CONTEMPORARY  REVIEWS 

**  *  Brutus  Ultor  '  is  a  true  Roman  play.  Plutarch  might  speak  a 
prologue  to  it.  The  author's  qualities  are  already  well  known.  Here 
they  are  shown  perhaps  to  greater  advantage  than  ever  before.  There 
is  something  very  fascinating  in  the  speed  and  vigour  of  this  play." 


From  the  ''SPECTATORS 

*'  The  sympathy  of  Brutus  with  the  multitude  and  its  wrongs,  its 
wantonness,  its  imbecility,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  is  called  to 
rule  it  and  impose  upon  it  the  sacred  yoke  of  law,  is  expressed  with 
true  genius.  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  we  should  say  that  this  play 
stands  next  to  *  Fair  Rosamund  '  among  Michael  Field's  achievements, 
but  that  it  does  not  reach  that  high-water  mark." 


From  the  Nexv  York  ''NATIONS 

"  ...  In  'Brutus  Ultor '  there  is  the  same  quality  of  excess. 
It  is  joined,  however,  with  a  dramatic  strength  unsurpassed  in  this  age. 
.  .  .  For  real  power,  this  short  drama  is  unsurpassed  by  any  of  its 
author's  previous  writings." 

From  the  "  A  THEN^EUMS 

"The  author  of  'Brutus  Ultor  '  has,  without  doubt,  many  qualities 
which  are  essential  to  dramatic  composition.  She  has  power,  concen- 
tration, and  that  now  unusual  quality  of  weirdness.     .     .     ." 


From  the  "LITERARY   WORLDS 

"In  'Brutus  Ultor'  .  .  .  Michael  Field  unfolds  the  familiar 
historical  tragedies  in  verse  that  seems  to  quiver  with  aching  life.  .  .  . 
The  entire  conception  of  this  tragical  drama  is  dignified  and  impressive 
in  the  extreme." 


From  the  "  DAIL  Y  NEWS." 

"  It  is  emphatically   true  that  this  author  can  7vr2te,    nor    are  such 
pure  characters  as  Lucretia's  beyond  the  range  of  her  genius." 


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